


Stolen

by mee4ever



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Conversations, First Dates, Happy Ending, Healer Draco Malfoy, Legilimency, Love Confessions, M/M, Memories, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Original Mythology, POV Alternating, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Harry Potter, Past Child Abuse, Prep Spells, Recovery, Relationship Discussions, Slow Burn, Switch Harry, Therapy, all the mental stuff, ill add tags when i update, mastrubation, or whatever, slight draco/blaise, slight harry/omc and harry/oliver wood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-08-20 07:40:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 37,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16551722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mee4ever/pseuds/mee4ever
Summary: “I need help,” Potter whispers, barely audible.Draco stares at him like it will make him understand, like Potter will solve like a puzzle in front of Draco’s eyes if he just looks long enough. He doesn’t solve the riddle, this new case, but a thought hits Draco in the stomach like a bludger. “Potter. Do you miss the Dark Lord?”Or the one where Harry's last resort is Draco Malfoy, and the problem turns out to be something completely different than he'd first thought.





	1. Time

**Author's Note:**

> (No, this isn't harry/vldmrt, pls dont ever think so.)
> 
> COMPLETED
> 
> Oh my gosh. Like, diddly darn. 16th of august 2016 is when this motherfucking fic was started. Do you understand how long ago that was? But. Damn fucking shit dude here it is. 
> 
> Big shout-out to my beta randoyoyo who has not only helped me with grammar and shit but also with cheering me on and wanting more. I have also had beta-help by the wonderful rainbowdrarry. Thanks guys! Any and all remaining errors are entirely my own. 
> 
> There are eleven chapters, and I think I'll try to upload them on Mondays Wednesdays and Saturdays, but I won't promise because I have shit memory. Everything (except like 700 words of the last chapter) is written so the only thing that stands in the way of me posting is my ability to remember. Please bear with me. Or like message me on tumblr if I've been gone too long. EDIT: everything is done qnd im even keeping to the schedual!
> 
> Tags and rating will be updated with each chapter. There's going to be explicit content, Harry's gonna get fucked by other people (in your face with some rando muggle dude oc, and Wood), and Draco and Blaise are fckbuds. b*ttom-harry, until he gets with Draco bc b*ttom-draco is life, my dudes. Guess that's the most important parts.
> 
> Anything else? Nope, don't think so. I hope you enjoy

A child wearing blue overalls runs towards him, as well as a toddler can run. It’s summer. Does it matter?

Four pillars are raised out of a setting foundation, the air smells of heat and new wood. There is nothing but peace and quiet now, it’s late evening and the area is deserted.

There’s kissing. Draco never liked these parts. Fortunately for him, it disappears as soon as it comes.

Worry. Wordless unease, red painted memories, and fuzzy edges. A cloud in the sky takes the shape of a dragon instead of a butterfly; an endless loop of fire. Just a little further now.

And then, there it is. White. Complete and utterless _nothing._ Unreachable and untouchable. Draco smirks, pleased. Because it doesn’t matter that this place is contaminated, it doesn’t matter to him that things are missing. After all, that’s why he’s here. To _fix it._

“I think that is enough for today,” he says and reverts himself into reality with a silent sigh. The woman in front of him—Mrs Hogarth—opens her eyes, closes her mind, stares at him, and stifles a yawn as she asks Draco what in Merlin’s name they’ve just found. Draco shuffles and stands, unnerved by the short distance between them when he isn’t working on her mind.

“We located the source of your problem,” he answers as he walks back to his desk. Mrs Hogarth looks nonplussed. He wonders if she has the energy to have the upcoming talk right now, if she will understand the deepest parts of her own mind, if she will freak out when Draco tells her that she really has been… tampered with. He’s not even sure if _he’s_ going to have the energy. But Mrs Hogarth decides in his place; she stands up and packs her things, and throws on her robes without adjusting them.

“Then I will get going, Mr Malfoy. I consider this progress to be a success for the time being, but I am not ready to know what will happen next. I will return next week as agreed, yes?”

Draco nods his head, relieved to postpone their next conversation, but he doesn’t show it. “Very well, Mrs Hogarth. Next week, as per usual.” She steps forward and extends her hand. He knows it isn’t gratitude but courtesy, and he’s thankful despite himself. He doesn’t do this, he doesn’t work, for the fame and glory—not that there is much of either of those—but some clients always leave with too much gratefulness, too much of the wrong sort of expectations. Expectations always lead way for disappointment, something Draco is prone to surround himself with. He wants to do his job, do it well, and leave it at that.

He takes her hand. They shake twice and she leaves through the door with a soft rustle.

Once alone, Draco sits behind his desk and starts writing notes. Intricate, with as much detail as he can. The more he gets down on paper the easier it will be to pick it all up next week. The Hogarth file isn’t particularly thick, the woman is pretty good at Occlumency which makes Draco’s job so much easier.

The trick is to find a balance. One where Draco can push and get through, but with enough resistance so that instead of bursting into a random bundle of memories and feelings and dreams, they find their way rather slowly through the mind. It’s good when images the client doesn’t want to show anyway pop up. That means Draco has the upper hand, but generally, the best thing is when the clients are also enough in control so that they can move away quickly to the next thing.

The notes for Hogarth doesn't take very long today. They didn’t have to work for very long either, even in the mind’s time, so he has plenty of time to update himself on his next case.

He spends no longer than a few minutes a day with Legilimency, but it can feel like hours inside of somebody’s mind. It’s like dreaming in reality as you are one with someone else’s point of view. It’s tiring, which means he only takes two clients a day, one in the morning and one in the afternoon, and the remaining hours go into talking to the clients, bookings, taking notes and studying old notes. His next file is no thicker than the first one, but whereas Hogarth has been coming for months and months, this Mr Whatshisname has only come half a dozen times. The poor bastard is one of the worst at Occlumency that Draco has ever met, which means there is just a lot of things to take note of and no time to actually work.

To read up is both mindless work and particular at the same time because in cases like this, there’s just so much unnecessary information, but then again it’s usually somewhere in them that Draco suddenly finds a clue so he must always be very aware of what he is reading.

On some levels, he loves his job. He loves the thrill and power Legilimency gives him when he can solve whatever puzzles his clients’ minds provide. On the other hand, it’s busy work despite the few sessions. He’s booked every day for the next couple of _months_ , and more requests for bookings flood in as he sits by his desk.

There is a careful knock on the door and Draco takes the time to rub his eyes before calling out an affirmative answer. He forgot his glasses at home and he’s just _not_ wearing his spare ones. The door opens and Astoria pops her head in.

As Draco’s business grew he needed help keeping track of all the appointments, and his mother had suggested Astoria. It was probably just to have them fall in love and marry, and even if Draco quite likes her, a marriage is never going to happen.

“You’ll want to take this one yourself,” she says and her eyebrows are raised high like she can’t believe who’s at the door. Draco waves a hand, dismissive, but Astoria knows it also means he’ll be there in a few minutes and she silently closes the door again.

It’s more usual for new clients to write, sometimes call, but it does happen that they drop by unannounced. Draco doesn’t like it. How hard could it be to make an appointment? He flips the file shut with a loud _snap_ and stands, trying to shake the annoyance from his shoulders, mould his face into something presentable and steps into the lobby that serves as his front office.

The man is standing with his back towards Draco, dressed in baggy clothes and his whole demeanour is fidgety. Uneasy. Draco is used to it. He has the reminder on his left arm. They all know just _who_ they’ve come to see. Astoria coughs to get the man’s attention and finally, he turns.

The first thing Draco thinks isn’t that it’s odd, no, he thinks: “He looks so old.” They haven’t even hit mid-twenty and yet there he is, messy hair sort of lifeless, skin dry, eyes dull and body so _aged._ Draco knows he himself doesn’t look like that, but for a second he feels like he’s ancient just because they’re the same age. He hasn’t even said a word and Draco wants to tell him to piss off already, he doesn’t have time for an identity crisis. Draco takes a quick breath through his nose.

“Potter,” he says.

From the moment Draco had “failed” to recognize Potter as Potter in Malfoy Manor, Draco’s whole approach to the war (and the boy) had started to change. It had suddenly become so _real_ because there was Potter: long-living enemy and Draco had had the chance, with the words “it’s him,” to have him executed. Dead. Gone, never to return again. How many times had he not wanted that, sitting there boiling with rage in the Slytherin Common Room? How many times hadn’t he wanted just that when he saw Potter and his stupid scar and careless hair in the corridor, or in class, or in the Great Hall? And yet, to stand there with Potter’s life in his hands, there wasn’t anything more he wanted than to see Potter at school one more time. To insult him and call him names and see his ears go red and for him to snap something back, even if it would embarrass Draco as well. Draco has always considered Potter an obstacle to fame, someone he needed to knock down to gain the popularity he deserved since Potter evidently hadn’t planned to join him. Looking down at Potter’s beat and bubbly face, there had been a sort of expectancy in the boy looking back. It was like Draco sneaking around the castle because he knew Potter was doing so and trying to catch him in the act was the same thing as Draco selling him out to Voldemort. To Draco, not long ago, that had been closer than he later wanted to admit. But at that moment, what he had needed to say was “I don’t know” and Draco had started edging the line between the two sides.

“Malfoy,” Potter says and Draco is completely unable to read the lines in his face at the moment. Is he here for shits and giggles? On official business? Personal reasons? Why? Astoria coughs again. Draco throws her a glance and she nods her head as if to tell him to be bloody polite, for Merlin’s sake. Draco sighs and offers Potter to step into his office. He sees the hesitation in Potter’s steps, but as Astoria sends him a brilliant smile and Draco holds his hand out for him to shake before they enter, he seems to relax slightly. He even shakes Draco’s hand. Draco pushes down the proud feelings that start bubbling up at that. It means nothing.

Once in the office, Potter looks around. He has positioned himself in the dead centre of the relatively large office and is studying _everything._ Draco thinks that maybe he is right to be suspicious. The last time they’d found themselves alone in a room, Potter had almost killed him. And Draco isn’t known for letting go of grudges.

Draco can’t help but study Potter further, as he slowly spins in a circle before him. Tense, but that’s no wonder. Restlessness seems to colour his movements, though, a general sort that Draco had thought the Golden Boy would’ve gotten past this long after the war.

Everyone had been restless and wandering and on edge when everything was gathering dust once more. The children of survivors of the dark side were the ones of which Draco had seen the most. And, with them, there had been a hopelessness overlapping everything else. Slytherin peers who had basically fought their own parents at Hogwarts or children with now-imprisoned parents; the list was endless. Draco still has both of his parents, which was all he ever wanted. If he hadn’t been so scared of his parents’ demise, things would’ve turned out so differently. There is little he wouldn’t do for them. The black ink he hates with all his guts is a clear proof of that.

But things have cooled down. In the last couple of years, the world has gone back to a somewhat normal pace. Potter, however, doesn’t look like he has fallen into step with the rest of them yet.

Draco leans on his desk as Potter finally stops inspecting the room and finds his gaze. Draco’s first question is simple: he wants to know what Potter is doing there.

“I need help.”

Draco rolls his eyes and indicates for Potter to sit down on the couch, which he does. Draco walks up to his own chair across from the couch but stands behind it. The small barrier feels much like a lifeline, which is pathetic, and yet, it does. “Why me?”

“You’re the… best,” Potter says and scrunches up his nose like it pains him to say it. Draco grins internally. Outwardly, he only lets the corner of his mouth quirk and he finally sits down as he answers.

“Indeed, I am,” he confirms, “but there are plenty of competent Healers, without my track record.”

“I don’t—” Potter starts but he doesn’t finish. Draco waits him out. The more Draco looks at him, the more restless Potter seems. Twisting, pursing his lips and looking highly distressed, it takes Potter minutes before he says, “I don’t trust the others.”

Draco arches an eyebrow at him. “Excuse me?”

“Did you spend a lot of time with Voldemort?” The sudden question and use of that name drags stored memories right out of their boxes, thousands of frames flash behind Draco’s eyes in a millisecond and he clutches the arm of his chair to not fall out of it. He hopes his features only _flashes_ the disgust and fear he feels because Potter doesn’t need to know how much he could affect him if he wanted to.

When he answers his voice is neutral, edging on annoyance. “I don’t know how much you would define ‘a lot’ to be, but our paths crossed rather frequently during a period of time, yes. I don’t see how this is relevant?”

Potter nods slowly, looking encouraged—not what Draco was going for. “Do you…” He pauses again. Not for as long this time but seeming just as uneasy as before. “Do you, sort of, _miss_ him?”

Draco thinks of the Dark Mark, his parents scared to death, tortured human beings, and Nagini. Of a cold voice telling him about a better world, a pure world; all he can think of is terror and death. Nothing he would say he ever wants again. He frowns. “No, Potter, I don’t ‘miss’ him.”

“And you’re not just saying that because it’s me asking?” Potter leans forward like he’s _eager_ for the answer. It’s a dark sort of eager, one Draco hasn’t seen in a long time. It makes him even more uncomfortable and he immediately regrets sitting down.

He shakes his head. “Potter, what are you on about?”

But then Potter only slumps on the couch, air completely gone out of him. He looks far more devastated than Draco feels comfortable with, especially after his latest questions and it's enough so that Draco stands again. The despair in the look Potter gives him as he does so makes him halt just in front of him.

“I need help,” Potter whispers, barely audible.

Draco stares at him like it will make him understand, like Potter will solve like a puzzle in front of Draco’s eyes if he just looks long enough. He doesn’t solve the riddle, this new case, but a thought hits Draco in the stomach like a bludger. “Potter. Do you miss the Dark Lord?”

And Potter hides his face in his hands, heaves a sob, and Draco is stunned, too stunned, to do a single thing.

~~

For a minute there, Harry really had thought he’d found someone who would _understand._ Maybe not fully, maybe not even much, but a small part that would just make his feelings seem less fucked up. But there isn’t any consolation to be found in Draco Malfoy; there is just shame to be felt and how had Harry been so bloody stupid to expect anything else? He had been grasping for straws and should’ve known his life doesn’t give him a single break. Just like when he was young.

And now he’s crying in Malfoy’s office like it isn’t enough to have indicated something as disturbed as missing the person in Harry’s life that he should in no way at all be missing. Malfoy is just standing there. Probably judging the living hell out of Harry and somehow it feels almost worse that he opened up to _him_ , and not Hermione or Ron because at least with them there wouldn’t have been the slightest chance they might feel the same. Malfoy had been… hope. Harry's last resort, and even if he shouldn’t have been surprised that it turns out this way, the hopelessness of the situation is overwhelming. He knows he cannot go on with his life as he has done, but now there is definitely no way out.

To spread salt in open wounds, Malfoy summons a box of tissues and places it on a little table beside the couch. Harry tries his best to hide his face and stop crying but neither really works. He must look like a mess. He _is_ a mess. With feet that don’t know where they want to take him, a heart that opens and closes at will, a mind that spins ragingly out of control, he can’t seem to _be still_. All is a journey in limbo with no destination, where the road is always a steep downwards slope into nowhere, and yet it feels like climbing a wall towards nothing at the same time. Somehow, he moves but doesn’t actually get anywhere. Hermione and Ron have kept with him, Luna as well, and Neville has tried (and succeeded moderately), but most of the rest have taken their distance. Not that Harry can blame them; it all comes back to the fact that Harry is wandering, unsettled and, with that, rather unfriendly and unapproachable. Most people don’t have the energy for him. He barely has it himself.

It had been Neville who took Draco Malfoy’s name in his mouth, not only surprising Harry but the rest of their friends as well. Neville still isn’t particularly keen on Malfoy, but he had seen the works of said man and not only heard the gossip but actually taken the time to look into it. Their Slytherin nemesis had gone and become _the_ best specialist Legilimency Healer available and though Neville does not know the extent of Harry’s troubles, he is well aware that _something_ isn’t as it should be. With that suggestion, a door opened and there came a new path for Harry. One he had stepped on as soon as he could, which is to say about an hour later.

Grudgingly, he takes some tissues from the box to blow his nose. Figures if Malfoy has seen him cry, what harm will it do if he sees him coming down from doing so? None. He knows there are about a million insults lodged on the tip of Malfoy’s tongue and the only thing holding him back from spewing them is the fact that Harry is still a potential client. A client to a job where the task is to enter the other person’s mind, and Harry would bet all the gold in Gringotts that Malfoy would be _delighted_ to take a look into Harry’s mind.

Malfoy clears his throat. “You done?” His voice is sharp and Harry quickly nods his head. Yeah, he’s completely done. “Then I have three questions for you”, Malfoy says while sitting down again and Harry looks up at him as he holds the first finger up. “One. Do you know how much a session with me costs a private person? Two. Do you understand what sessions with me even entail? And three. Do you have any idea of how fully booked I am?”

He keeps his three raised fingers up and looks expectantly at Harry. Harry, who had not thought Malfoy would even consider helping him after this whole ordeal, forgets how to work his basic functions; like talking, not staring, breathing, and swallowing. So they stare at one another for a long time and when Harry finally draws a quick breath to answer, all the saliva that has gathered is dragged down with it, making him cough.

Once he’s able to breathe again he croaks, “I almost choked myself on my own spit,” and wonders in the same moment why he opened his mouth to say _that,_ but Malfoy’s face doesn’t even sneer into a grimace.

“You really know how to charm a man,” he deadpans and flicks his fingers in the air.

Harry takes a few breaths—for real this time—just to make sure that he _can_ actually breathe again before he answers. “Money is not an issue,” he says then and Malfoy folds one finger back against his palm. Harry twists in his seat. “I don’t want St. Mungo’s or the Ministry involved.”

“There would be a doctor-patient confidentiality agreement, where authorities would be sent an owl in the case I thought it highly potential you would commit a crime of larger proportions or hurt another human being, and the hospital in case I thought you would cause physical harm to yourself.” Malfoy brushes the two fingers he still holds up against each other in a quick motion. (Harry suddenly wonders whether his fingers would be hot or cool to the touch because he didn’t think much of it as they shook hands, but it is a thought he dismisses as soon as it manifests.)

“You use Legilimency,” Harry mutters. “You’ll have complete access to my mind.”

At this, Malfoy frowns. “I will not have complete access to your mind if I have something to say about it. Are you any good at Occlumency?”

“I’m rubbish,” Harry admits and Malfoy looks like it’s bad news rather than the joy Harry had expected; like he would’ve felt in school because of the simple reason that Harry wasn’t good at something.

“You’ll have to work on it.”

“I don’t think that’s an option.” Sighing, Malfoy puts away his long finger and now it’s only his index left. “I can’t wait,” Harry tells him.

“You’re not privileged here unless you come via the authorities. My waiting list is at least ten weeks.”

“I can’t wait,” Harry repeats and Malfoy’s face twists in annoyance. Harry cannot budge on this point. He will not go another day without knowing he has started _something,_ anything.

Harry has started a lot of things in the last five years. Relationships, conversations, renovating projects, jobs, books, movies, and none of them has he actually been able to see through. He’s been a whirlwind, stirring up shit and he hasn’t been able to stop himself even when he has wanted to. He hasn’t felt content in such a long time, he doesn’t know if he’ll recognize the feeling if it ever appears again. At times, he feels happy, sure, but as soon as something mildly inconvenient crosses his path, he erupts into a volcano of rage and sadness and he doesn’t know how to handle it. Draughts haven’t worked. Punching things haven’t worked. Crying, screaming, writing, painting hasn’t worked. He’s tried fucking his way through it all and that hasn’t worked either. Not that he really thought it would because he’s always felt more like the monogamy type of guy. But love hasn’t found him as much as it has left him.

There isn’t much he can do. Harry Potter isn’t one for begging but that’s what he does when the stern look on Malfoy’s face doesn’t change with his demands. He even says the words: “I beg you, please” and that is probably a worse embarrassment than crying on Malfoy’s office couch. Malfoy eyes him, almost with a sort of suspicious look but then he purses his lips. Harry damns him to hell for enjoying Harry on his knees.

Malfoy draws a breath and starts, “You will come here at five o’clock on Wednesday mornings and you will not complain about it.” Harry gapes, Malfoy doesn’t care. “We will do this until there is an actual free spot in my schedule for you. We’ll start with a thirty-minute Calm Down and a two-minute session. Astoria will take care of the forms and the money business.” He rises to his feet and steps towards his desk, away from Harry on the couch. “That’s all I’m offering; take it or wait for your turn.” He sits down and starts rummaging in his papers.

“Two minutes?” Harry says faintly. “And half an hour of 'calm down'?”

When Malfoy looks up, he looks annoyed. “Yes, to start with. Once we have normal appointments we can increase to closer to five minutes. It depends mostly on how much you can handle. And for the calming exercises: I expect you to work them into your regular life once you’ve learned them.”

Harry scoffs softly, wants to tell Malfoy that he doesn’t have a “regular life,” but he will know that soon enough anyway.

Malfoy tips his nose into the air. “I suggest you take this seriously, Potter,” he sneers, “because I think for you to come crying on my doorstep is a new low for you. I would hate for you to give yourself over to me just to get nothing out of it.”

“I thought it wouldn’t be like that?” Harry says, completely ignoring Malfoy’s snide gibe.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” is all Malfoy replies before returning to his papers. Harry knows when he’s being dismissed and as he stands, knees feeling wobbly. He’s afraid he might not be able to walk out of the place without toppling over. He takes a reassuring breath and when he takes a step, he doesn’t fall. So he takes another and for once he feels like he’s walking towards something despite the fact that where he’s going at the moment is out of Malfoy’s office.


	2. Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What will you see?”  
> “Anything,” Draco answers because it’s the truth. It’s a delicate art and to fully master the technique he’s using has taken him a long time, but he can’t do much the first time—or first couple of times—especially with a client who’s incompetent at Occlumency. Potter doesn’t seem to relax even a little at the answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Finished the entire fic so no need like at all to threat about it not being done.)

He shouldn’t have taken on Potter’s case. It’s stupid, it’s going to be tiring and he doesn’t actually have the time. His other clients will suffer. Everyone will suffer. But three things made him agree. Potter had done what he’d done during the war and Draco feels like this is a chance for him to repay and repent for some of the things that he himself has done. The second reason is the way Potter had said “please” because Draco had wanted to swallow the word with his mouth and see what would happen if he did. There is no way he is going to kiss _Harry Potter,_ but the thought in itself is interesting enough to be explored. For his final reason, he lists everyone he thinks is better suited to miss the Dark Lord and yet doesn’t and comes to the conclusion that a case like Potter’s is a once in a lifetime occurrence. Is he suffering from some weird display of PTSD? Is he cursed? (More than usual, that’s to say.) Is he completely fine, but still totally fucked up? Draco wants to  _know_. 

His need for answers grows stronger the more he thinks about it. Which he does a lot. When he goes out with Theo on Saturday, when he goes for brunch with Mother and Pansy on Sunday, when Blaise steps into Draco’s apartment on Monday night to fuck his brains out, when he visits Father on Tuesday, when he has other clients. It becomes bad enough that he even feels _thrilled_ by the thought of figuring Potter out and he has to tell himself to keep it down, to think of other matters for as much as he can. (It doesn’t help.)

When Wednesday comes, Draco isn’t as excited anymore. Stepping out of bed at four in the morning to see Potter doesn’t feel like such a good idea and he wonders why in Merlin’s name he ever thought it to be something he would ever want to do. Yet, he does. He gets dressed and eats his breakfast and goes to the office; apparating at five o’clock sharp, expecting to be waiting for Potter. But when he lands outside the door to the front desk, Potter is sitting on the ground with his back to the wall.

“Malfoy,” he says as he rises to his feet and surprisingly, after brushing himself off, he extends his hand for Draco to shake. Which Draco does, of course, he’s not been raised by wolves and if _The_ _Boy Who Lived_ wants to shake his hand, who is he to deny him? It isn’t like it feeds Draco’s ego every time he does.

“Potter.”

Potter falls into step behind him as Draco unlocks the door and since they have nothing else to say to each other at this point, they remain quiet. Once they step inside Draco’s office, Draco points towards the couch again and Potter obediently crashes down on it.

“If you fall asleep, I’ll hex you,” Draco says in passing as he gets his new file for “Potter” out.

Usually, he keeps his record with full names, but he can’t make himself have to see the full name all the time. It sort of feels… off-limits? It doesn’t make sense but no one will complain. They are _his_ records after all.

“Way to build trust, Malfoy,” Potter groans from the couch and stifles a yawn. Draco gives him a look that he can’t see; it’s one of the deadly ones, but he chooses not to say anything. It’s not worth it at this moment. Potter needs to be calm before they do this and starting a brawl might not be the best way to make that happen. Sighing instead, Draco takes his seat opposite Potter, who looks like he’s on the edge. Of what, Draco doesn’t know.

“Have you ever done breathing exercises?” Draco asks. Stunned, Potter shakes his head. Draco wants to shake his own, but doesn’t. “We’ll start with something simple then. I want you to close your eyes and start thinking about how you breathe: start with breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth.”

At first, Potter doesn’t do anything other than grimace. “This is not my—” he starts, but Draco doesn’t care.

“You will do it, Potter, or else I will be unable to help you.”

“It’s not that easy,” Potter says, fierce heat lacing his words and Draco can’t believe how fast he goes from relatively calm to that. This is going to be impossible.

“You will _try_ then, with all you’ve got.” Potter defiently closes his eyes and starts breathing as per Draco’s instructions. He does it fast and hard, almost like he’s panting but he does it correctly which is all Draco can really ask for. Shutting his own eyes, Draco does the same, but with the addition of counting his in- and exhales. He figures Potter won’t be able to get past the first stage for another ten minutes.

When Potter’s breaths have become somewhat normal sounding, Draco tells him to keep going because he can sense that Potter is already wondering how long he will have to do this for. For people who have never done this sort of thing, a minute or two can feel like forever, whereas Draco, who literally does this for a living, doesn’t have a hard time with it. There are a few mutters from Potter’s lips but he doesn’t stop which Draco marks as a win.

“Now,” he says when Potter starts shuffling—way before Draco had anticipated he would—and Potter stills. “Now, I want you to start to really clear your mind.”

“How?” Potter asks. No bloody wonder he is bad at Occlumency.

“You make your mind go blank,” Draco provides. “Don’t let your thoughts wander, you just want to think about breathing.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get that, but how do I do that?”

Draco opens his eyes and Potter is already looking at him, brows furrowed and mouth tight. For a minute, Draco doesn’t know what to say because _he_ doesn’t really know how he does it. He just _does_ it. It’s not harder than that, at least not for him.

“Try… try putting labels on the thoughts. When you start on the breathing, the breathing is all you think of, if just for a second or two that is your only thought, so as soon as you start to drift, you acknowledge that you are drifting, you put a little label on the thought to mark it as seen, and then go back to the breathing. You can’t just think of nothing; it’s more that whenever you start to move away from the blank, you drag yourself back again.”

At first, Potter just gives him a disbelieving look. Then, he closes his eyes and starts breathing again. Draco doesn’t close his own eyes this time but watches the man in front of him instead. How his eyes move under his eyelids, how his chest rises and falls, too fast still. Watches how his lips part and how his nostrils flare. He doesn’t look relaxed or peaceful in the slightest, and it concerns Draco because you can breathe for an eternity but if you do not relax it won’t help anyway. He might need to try another approach, but that will have to be next week. If Potter even comes back.

“Can I put little flags on the thoughts instead?” he asks suddenly and Draco jumps. Just a little, though. He clears his throat, saying that of course, he can put whatever he wants on the thoughts, it’s just a metaphor anyway. Potter nods, eyebrows drawn so close he looks like he’s going to start bawling again.

Display of emotions isn’t one of Draco’s favourite things. Neither when it comes to other people’s nor his own. Seeing Potter cry the last time he sat on that couch had been truly uncomfortable and Draco just _never_ knows what he’s supposed to do (especially with someone he doesn’t particularly like). He tries to ignore it the best he can and pretend it never happened once the person has stopped. He wonders how much of that he is going to have to sit through when working in Potter’s mind. He doesn’t seem like the type to hold a lot of emotions inside and neither did his friends when Draco saw them on a regular basis. Ugh. And then he thinks about Potter kissing the she-weasel, having to experience that first hand, and he wants to vomit a little.

“Do you feel ready?”

Potter opens his eyes. “Are we really only going to do this for two minutes? That’s nothing.”

“For how long have you done it before?”

“Hours?” Potter says and makes a face.

Draco doesn’t mean to, but a quiet “wow” manages to slip out between his lips. The longest session he’s done was about fifteen minutes and the client almost fell asleep while shaking his hand afterwards. That Potter was even awake at all after an hours-long session is remarkable. Professional curiosity takes over and he asks, “And how… did you feel after?”

Potter shrugs. “Exhausted; I fell asleep during class.” Draco nods. He can even recall it happening in one of their joint Herbology classes. Potter nodding off in between the pots and the weasel shaking him awake. Draco, at the time, had just thought Potter was up to something. Oh, how the world changes with a tiny bit of information. Draco is marginally scared of what will happen once he’s seen life from Potter’s point of view.

“We will do about two minutes,” Draco confirms. “It’s not wise to try to throw ourselves deep down and tire ourselves too much when this is basically just an introduction. I’ll get to know your brain and you’ll get to see how it feels to push back. Today, we’re not here to make discoveries or do actual work, but to… get acquainted.” There is a slow nod from Potter on the couch and Draco responds with the same.

Potter takes a few deep breaths.

“Okay,” he says.

Draco raises his wand from his lap and before he has raised it to eye-level, Potter yells for him to stop. Draco does as he asks: lowers his wand and doesn’t continue. Potter is breathing fast again. There go the last thirty minutes straight to rubbish.

“What is it, Potter?”

“What will you see?”

“Anything,” Draco answers because it’s the truth. It’s a delicate art and to fully master the technique he’s using has taken him a long time, but he can’t do much the first time—or first couple of times—especially with a client who’s incompetent at Occlumency. Potter doesn’t seem to relax even a little at the answer.

“What if I… don’t want you to see something?” he asks.

“You have to shut me out, by using Occlumency. That’s why we’ve been sitting here doing nothing, Potter. So that I won’t go in with your mind being all over the place because you cannot control much if it is.”

Scoffing, Potter mutters, “Someone should’ve told me that the first time they tried to teach me this.”

“Who wouldn’t tell you those things? It’s basics.”

Potter raises his gaze and catches Draco’s eye in a hard look. “Snape,” he says then. “Fifth year. It was in the middle of the night and Dumbledore thought Voldemort had access to my mind. So, Snape went into it instead, time after time, trying to get me to push him out. It didn’t go very well.”

Draco stays quiet as he contemplates this. There are just so many things about this man that he doesn’t know, that he never thought happened, that he has taken for granted. He would’ve thought that somebody more… _pedagogical_ would’ve been chosen to teach Potter such an important skill and not someone who hated the student with about ninety-nine percent of the fibers in their body. It was treacherous and it had evidently not helped.

“The possibility that I will see something… private is very high. You know this. It would be strange if I did not. You still have the option to walk away, I’m not going to make you do this.”

At the words, Potter looks slightly stunned. Then he shakes himself and nods once more. “Alright. Okay. Yes.”

“Are you calm?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t lie.” Potter twitches and clenches his teeth, and Draco’s gaze falls to Potter’s hands clasped in his lap. He can’t make out the scarred words even from this short distance, but he makes a mental note to avoid such sentences in the future.

“Put the flags again.”

And Potter closes his eyes.

After a minute he nods. “Do it.”

Draco leans back, raises his wand and says, “ _Legilimens._ ”

For the first twenty to twenty-five flashes, they’re just that. How much Potter has tried to soothe his mind doesn’t matter because images and feelings flash by so quickly that Draco can’t even comprehend what is happening. Usually he can at least understand some of what he sees but with Potter it’s just noise and colours.

Then, finally, the images stay for half a second instead of just a few milliseconds. It isn’t ideal, but Draco can take in these sights and what else can he hope for? Granger hugs him, the weasel tells the end of a joke, he’s laughing, he’s crying, it’s dark, it’s light, Dumbledore stands in the Great Hall, there’s a fat dude grabbing him, there’s a thin woman yelling, there’s Potter’s white owl. He’s walking, standing, jumping, running, flying; there’s happiness and joy but Harry has ants in his feet, he’s sad as well and angry, disappointed and scared. Darkness is edging. It’s life, and everything in it.

When a memory stays for longer than half a second, it’s not a memory Draco had expected. It’s not a feeling, which is more usual to be the first thing to stay, because even if they are more fleeting, they’re usually much stronger than memories themselves. But Potter has never been like anyone else, has he? So when Draco feels the world slowing to a halt, abruptly and almost stuttering, he’s confused for a second about what is going on. Because it’s the familiar feeling of a cock up his arse, but he has never felt like this before because it isn’t actually _him_ being filled up; it’s Potter. It’s Potter being fucked, hot and heavy, pressing himself against another man and when he opens his mouth it’s Harry’s voice that quivers the name “Oliver” and the other man replies with a gentle and reassuring “I’ve got you, Harry.”

Potter’s old Quidditch captain is not bad in bed, Draco doesn’t have to experience more than a few moments of this memory to say so, but Harry is new to this and doesn’t take it very well. He isn’t meeting the thrusts like he should, so he messes up the rhythm which only makes it more uncomfortable than it has to be. Draco feels a pull, but it takes him almost thirty seconds before he recognizes it as Occlumency rather than something Potter is feeling in the memory. He finds it interesting that they haven’t moved on yet, since this is the first time today he has felt anything from the actual Potter rather than mind-Potter-memories and he realises as he withdraws from Potter’s mind and back into reality that he was left with the last memory because finally Potter actually focused his energy enough to do something about it; even if what he wanted was to move on and what he got was to be fucked for another half minute.

When Draco opens his eyes, he sees Potter—red-faced and rage laced expression—open his. Then he’s pushed down into his chair, Potter’s hand around his tie and wand stuck to his throat, as if to choke and stab him at the same time

~~

“Are you going to kill me, Potter?” Malfoy asks, voice hinting at amusement and it makes Harry press the tip of his wand even harder into Malfoy’s flesh. Draco doesn’t move, he barely acknowledges the way he’s being half choked or Harry’s wheezing hisses for him to go to hell.

He can’t believe he thought it was a good idea to let _Malfoy_ explore his mind. Before he was granted access there, Harry had thought about all the things he didn’t want him to see and somehow sex hadn’t really been the deal breaker. It is now. The memory they explored was from a few years ago, from a time when sex was sacred and something Harry only did rarely and had only done a few times with another man. This memory isn’t just personal and private, it is embarrassingly so, and it isn’t something he can have Malfoy go around gossiping about. Especially since neither Oliver nor Harry are exactly out; Harry basically not to anyone. At all. Except around a few muggle bars, but that doesn’t really count, does it?

“You won’t say a word,” he gasps, feeling like he can’t breathe, his vision coming to focus on Malfoy’s face. “Not to me, not to anyone; we will not talk about this. Not how disgusting you think I am, no mocking, no slipping it anonymously to the press, no _nothing_ , we clear?” He doesn’t sound as demanding as he wants to, he sounds desperate, and despite that being what he _is,_ he doesn’t want it to show as much. He also wants to know how they only stayed _there_ for longer than a second but he doesn’t want to ask, so he pushes it away.

“I don’t care who you sleep with,” Malfoy says and he _does_ look like he doesn’t give the slightest shit, which makes Harry pull back a little in surprise, but he can’t understand what got into him thinking that a signature on a stupid, insignificant confidentiality agreement made him trust that Malfoy will keep _this_ a secret. He’s going to globber, first chance he gets. _Fuck._ “And if you really thought I would frown upon or _out_ a gay relationship, you haven’t paid attention.”

Frowning, Harry lets go of Malfoy’s tie like it has burned him, suddenly he understands how close they are (which in this case really doesn’t help) and removes his wand from Malfoy’s neck with a sleek flick. Left on his throat is a perfectly round and red mark and Harry wonders how close he’d been to break skin. He feels only a tiny bit regretfull.

Sucking in a breath, he says, “I don’t want _you_ to _see_ me do anything like that.”

“To ‘see’ you do it?” Malfoy scoffs and gives the slightest eye roll. “It’s not like a Memory, Potter. I’m not watching things happening _to_ you; I watch them happen _as_ you.”

That doesn’t make Harry feel any less angry that Malfoy got to see one of _those_ (not so) sexy times. “Well, isn’t that bloody marvelous. Are we done?” He wants to go home, he never wants to come back.

But Malfoy takes a look at his wristwatch and gives a side nod. “I think we’ve only gone about… twenty-two seconds. We should not stop unless you want to have come here for not even a fourth of what we planned. And that would be rather petty of you, don’t you think?”

Harry doesn’t even try to clear his mind for the rest, even though he tells Draco that he does. If getting stuck on embarrassing sex memories is what he gets from doing so, Harry has no interest in doing it. The images they pass simply leave again before they have materialized and knowing Malfoy is experiencing them through Harry, Harry is happy to let everything float. But Malfoy’s eyes are sparkling with rage when he leaves Harry’s mind for the second time and his mouth is a thin line. He tells Harry that he isn’t even trying, that it’s not hard to tell and that he can go bother someone else if he’s going to behave childishly just because he likes Wood up his arse.

What happens after that, Harry doesn’t know.

Suddenly he finds himself standing on his own doorstep, breathing like he’s been running for miles, and for all he knows, maybe he has? Maybe he ran home from Malfoy’s clinic? It’s not that far, but far enough that he should have _noticed_ if he had? Had he Apparated? Illegally? The more he thinks about the matter, the scarier it becomes and he can’t for the life of him remember.

They don’t happen often, these gaps in memory, but they do occur and he’s learned by experience that it’s usually when he is feeling too much at once; too much anger, sadness, anxiety, fear, anything as long as it’s strong. It’s like his brain shuts down and he does things he doesn’t intend to. (Like that time he tried setting all of Mills’ clothes on fire and then didn’t have any recollection of that happening.) (She didn’t really like that.) It has always ended up hurting, or almost hurting, other people. What might have happened to Malfoy, Harry doesn’t dare think about.

His flat—the sixth one he’s had in the last one and a half years—is somehow bare and cramped at the same time, when he finally gets inside after standing on the steps for several minutes catching his breath. He hasn’t cleaned it since… he moved in basically, and that was about two months ago. But he doesn’t own a lot of stuff and anything he owns will probably be swapped out in the next move. He doesn’t see himself staying here long. He hasn’t stayed long anywhere.

Sitting with his phone in his hand, scrolling through all his contacts, is never a fun thing. There are far too many numbers, but way too few he can call where the person on the other end will pick up. There’s actually not even half a dozen of that kind, Harry figures after a quick headcount. But he needs only one now and he thumbs his name several times before hitting the call button. It is eleven o’clock after all.

Brian picks up with a “Harry, you shouldn’t call me when I’m working”. He’s a Muggle, a nobody to anyone in the Wizarding community; he’s exactly what Harry craves.

“I need you to come here, bend me over something hard and fuck me raw,” is all Harry says, which he is rewarded for with a slight gasp and his name being thrown out in a hush whisper. Harry ignores him. “I’ll even get myself ready.”

“Don’t,” comes Brian’s voice over the line, thick and hoarse and it sends a thrill down Harry’s spine.

“Early lunch then?” And he hangs up before Brian can answer.

It takes less than fifteen minutes before Brian is pressing him up against the front door, growling about Harry being a fucking pain in the arse. Harry counters that he’d like for Brian to be a pain in his, instead. Brian laughs but gives Harry what he wants without a fuss.

It feels like revenge, for a second. Fucking, now that he knows what the hell he’s doing. Thinking that Malfoy should see _this_ and boy, would he have a different ride. The solitude of that thought only lasts shortly, though. His mind keeps showing him images of Oliver Wood around him, in him, and himself figuring it all out, and he doesn’t miss Wood, per se, but he misses that sense of really trying to hold on to his own ideals, to normal life, to screw for reasons other than relief and coping. That doesn’t stop him from calling whoever he can now, Brian being the top choice at the moment.

He’s shorter than Harry, and he’s buff and strong like Harry likes most of his men. At least, those are the ones he picks up. Brian’s a hurricane in bed; no mercy, just power and hunger. He _uses_ and Harry likes it because Harry uses him, too.

It’s too soon that Brian puts his clothes back on and leaves Harry, messy and naked and bent over the kitchen table, and if it isn’t restlessness creeping up against Harry’s spine, he doesn’t know what it is. He feels it too often, how meaningless it feels to be still, how meaningless a simple fuck is, but how he can’t make himself fall in love anymore because _you’re not supposed to make yourself fall in love._ You’re just supposed to _do it:_ fall and fall in love. All he does is fall and fall into a big pile of shit nothing.

Maybe he should just ignore the cum drying on his skin and skip the clothes, just walk around like this for the rest of the week and maybe he’ll feel _good_ once he _stops_ doing that.

Maybe he should just go back to Malfoy’s office and beg again for him to please ignore whatever he did and whatever he might do in the future and to just bloody help him anyway. Is that too much to ask? Harry _did_ save his life. A few times. Malfoy has also saved him, and Harry also tried to kill him at least once, so maybe that has already evened them out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter on Monday!


	3. Voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I will do whatever I can, tell you anything you want to know, let you see everything and I will not consciously do anything against you. That is what I can give you, Draco, and… I just hope you can settle with that.”

The fucker barges in again, not even polite enough to stay in the hallway; no, Harry Potter barges into Draco’s _office_ without as much as a knock. It’s not even Wednesday. It’s Monday. Draco is thankfully in between clients, which he hopes is the reason why Astoria comes running behind Potter instead of having magically stopped him outside the door. Seated at his desk, with his frameless glasses pushed upon his nose, Draco is having an internal, perfectly controlled freakout. Firstly, the audacity of the precious _Boy Who Lived_ to be so blatantly disrespectful to an honest profession, that takes a lot of brain capacity and concentration, is striking; secondly, Harry Potter is looking at him and Draco is wearing _glasses_. He’s come to terms with the fact that he needs them, that he’s long-sighted, but having to showcase it to the world and worst of all _Potter_ , isn’t something he’s utterly comfortable with. If he could choose himself, he would never let anyone see him wear them. Nobody—except Astoria— _has_ , not even Blaise or Mother. Until now.

Potter has already started babbling before he is inside the door and he doesn’t stop now. Astoria offers a quick apology and flees the scene before anything goes down. Draco doesn’t even begin to listen to Potter’s word-vomit; instead, he clenches his jaw, carefully removes his glasses and puts them on his desk, rises to his feet and brings out his wand. Potter slows down as Draco raises it to his face, looking stunned without Draco having to spell him so.

“Shut. Up.” Potter presses his lips together. Draco used to feel thrilled by this: having someone under control without _actually_ having it, with an illusion of power with wand versus no wand, even if he didn’t intend on casting anything. Now, he feels strange about it. Not sure what he thinks of it except that it isn’t very thrilling at all. It might be a little satisfying after last week, though. “Do you know how much self-restraint I’m practicing right now, to not hex you back?” Draco’s voice sounds forced, even to himself, when he was going for off-hand trivia.

“I hexed you?” Potter asks and Draco has to _double_ that self-restraint.

“Yes, you blithering idiot, you _hexed_ me.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Convenient.” It’s a wonder Potter isn’t _The Boy Who Died Seven Times A Day_. “Shut up,” Draco demands again when Potter opens his mouth to speak once more because Draco cannot handle it. He _will_ hex him, whatever the consequences, if he doesn’t shut his mouth. “You really are something, you know that? Do you think you can just walk in here any time you like? The world doesn’t revolve around you, even if it might feel that way to you, seeing as you’re on the front page of the Prophet 24/7, but for us people in the real world, with actual jobs, we have other business to attend to that doesn’t include you.

“Last time, I let you barge in here out of pity, I offered you help which you very clearly didn’t want to participate in and I will not tolerate you interrupting my work again after the stunt you pulled last session. If you want something, you can take a seat in the waiting area and I’ll tend to you if I get a minute of spare time that I think is worth spending on you.”

Draco sits down again, defiantly puts his glasses back on—because fuck if he’s gonna let Potter know he’s ashamed of them—and waves his wand to slam the door open again.

“That is all,” he says and starts writing again without giving Potter as much as a last glance and the other man must be feeling inadequate enough because he leaves without another word, closing the door behind him.

Not knowing whether Potter is waiting or not is agony. Draco wants for him to have stayed, he wants him to be that desperate, he wants Potter to _need him_ , he wants him to feel every second of every minute he’s left alone to _burn_ because maybe that will mean he’ll take Draco absolutely serious in the future.

Their first session had been a disaster. Apparently, Potter isn’t very keen on having anyone know he sleeps with guys. To be fair, Draco had been fairly surprised (especially about the fact that he’d been able to keep it a secret for _years),_ but mostly it was something he didn’t care much about.

The memory had not been a recent one. There were several ways for Draco to know that, but two were important: Draco happened to know that Oliver Wood had definitely spent the last couple of years abroad, playing Quidditch professionally; and it had _felt_ older. Some people had memories that did that; feel different. Not really duller, but simply just _less._ Less of everything; detail, colour, sounds, feelings. It didn’t always happen, but Draco had seen it a few times. It was not a surprise that Harry was one of the people with those sort of memories, his mind seemed to try and save too much and therefore things, quite literally, fell apart. On another, more unusual note, the memory had also looked different. Draco doesn’t think it has anything to do with age, but it had looked like it was made of pastel colours rather than normal saturation. Older memories greyed, lost their vibrancy, but this was… different.

Draco sits out for about two hours, seventy percent of which he spends trying to focus and thirty failing miserably, before he checks the reception to see whether or not Potter has left. And no, he hasn’t. Potter sits on one of the super uncomfortable chairs Draco has had installed and he’s staring into the distance, his eyes looking severely dead. Astoria gives him a nod, Draco only raises an eyebrow at her before turning his attention back to Potter.

Draco doesn’t care to clear his throat before speaking. “You have two minutes.”

Potter jumps. For real, off the chair and up to Draco, faster and closer than necessary. “This is what happens to me sometimes,” he says in the process.

“Cursing people much?” Draco sneers and he can _see_ how Potter refrains himself from showing off some stupid grimace. So he _does_ need this, after all.

“ _Forgetting_ about it,” Potter clarifies. “Or, you know, hitting my best friend in the face because he said something mildly offensive, stuff like that. Disappears. Could you tell me what I did? Please?”

And there he goes and says it again. It is simply _annoying_ how it makes Draco’s fingertips tingle, pathetic how it makes him crumble when he had decided he would not. “You sealed my lips together with a Lip-Lock-curse and it was not the pleasant type of lip-lock. It took Astoria an hour, once she finally arrived, to get it off of me and it stopped hurting just yesterday.” He says it fast, just to get the words out and be over with it, nodding towards Astoria as he mentions her.

“I didn’t even know you could cast it that… powerfully.” Potter looks astonished, almost scared.

“Two minutes, tick tock,” Draco says after fake-checking his watch. It makes Potter change his expression into something panicked but he doesn’t say anything else. It’s like he didn’t have two hours to prepare a grand apology. Draco smacks his lips together in an “okay, then” sort of gesture and turns to leave again.

“Malfoy…”

And Draco stops. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard his name being spoken so softly. Definitely not from Potter’s lips and as he turns and looks Potter’s face, there is nothing but a plea visible on it. Draco doesn’t want to, yet he’s the one who speaks. “You don’t want me in your head.”

“No, I don’t.”

“So what will happen the next time we stumble upon something extremely private, huh? Am I supposed to take that risk, just because you give me sad eyes and desperation?”

“Yes,” rolls Potter’s answer through the air.

“Convince me.” Potter stares blankly at him, Draco nods his head. “Convince me I should step out of bounds for you, come up with arguments good enough so that I can see myself with my lips locked again or potentially have something worse happen to me because of you and think of it as worth it. Tell me why I should, that you will work with me, and I’ll give this another honest go.”

There is little for Draco to understand of Potter’s expression now, for he looks like there is just nothing left of him. When he opens his mouth to speak, his voice is flat, the only real indication that he is somewhat present is that he casts a quick glance towards Astoria before he starts like he wishes she wasn’t there to hear.

“I didn’t come to you as an option. I came to you as a last hope. One last chance to find that maybe I’m not crazy, maybe I’m not alone, maybe all of that yadayada. I told you I don’t trust any other Healers, and in truth, I do not trust you either, but I do not trust anyone, so it doesn’t matter. I don’t trust my friends, my closest kin, I do not trust strangers and I do, most of all, not trust myself.

“And somehow I have a little sliver of faith left for you, and for what I’m hoping you will find inside my mind, and for you to be able to fix it. I don’t need to convince you, because there is nothing I can say that will make this worth it for you. There’s nothing I can give you, but if you do it, you give me an honest chance to have my life back, to keep living and if you don’t… Well, if you don’t, I have no idea what to do, where to turn, or who to get help from.

“I will do whatever I can, tell you anything you want to know, let you see everything and I will not consciously do anything against you. That is what I can give you, Draco, and… I just hope you can settle with that.”

If Draco Malfoy did hugs, he would hug Potter now. Draco Malfoy isn’t big on hugs, though, so what he does is nod and lead Potter out of the reception, back into his office. Hunched over and slowly, Potter complies and once again they’re seated opposite each other; on the couch, in the armchair.

Touching his mouth, Potter asks, “Was it really that bad?”

“Indeed. Most spells and curses are driven by intent, not just the Forbidden Ones. They get stronger the more you will them to be, so that’s why children show magic and why we as adults sometimes do magic even when we do not actually try. Which is, by the way, what you did. The spell, I mean, wandless.”

Potter doesn’t look very surprised at this. Not in a manner that says he knew that he’d done it like that but rather lets on that he’s done the same thing some _other_ time which is intriguing.

“Well, I wanted you to be silent forever,” he mutters and looks away.

“And you scared the crap out of me in the process.” They find themselves staring at one another again, Potter with his brow furrowed and Draco with his raised. “Have you ever not been able to speak? Well, I’ve never quite so _literally_ not been able to, and it was terrifying.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I don’t want to. I hate it when you know that I’m genuinely scared about something.” Potter looks baffled but Draco only continues. “I told you I’d give this an honest go if you convinced me. So yes, this is the plan: I’m going to tell you something I don’t want to tell you, whenever I get to see something you don’t want me to see. Even things out. Maybe you’ll learn something useful. Does that feel like something you can do, huh, Potter? I rile you, you rile me; we’ll be happy about it.”

There is no way for Draco to be certain of the outcome, but he feels willing to try. He’s willing to put himself out there, to let Potter in, because it’s well overdue they tried it. He’s been wanting to since he was eleven years old and even if this is not what he’d ever really pictured, he’ll take it. Hopefully, he’ll find something wrong with Potter’s mind, and help him work past it. A new chance for him, and a new chance for Draco.

“Okay,” Potter confirms.

~~

He doesn’t know if he feels relieved. After being such an anxious ball of misery for the last half week, any other feelings just play out and sort of float away. Eaten by what-ifs and the fear of failing once again. He racks his brain for a potential feeling that might just overpower the others, but all he gets is noise and confusion and it’s not even enough of that to call it a feeling.

Draco Malfoy is a wonder. In such a way that Harry has no idea what to make of him. There is no real need for him to help Harry in any way, he could’ve blatantly said no or at least “wait in line” and now he’s willing to share himself just because _Harry_ shares himself, even though it’s Draco’s _job_ to learn about Harry and his secrets and not the other way around. Maybe he feels guilty. That he’s taken enough from Harry and wants to even the score. Harry could go many sleepless nights, wondering, without coming up with the answer. He could just ask. But it would defeat the purpose and Harry has a feeling he hasn’t shared enough with Draco yet to get an honest response to that.

So he doesn’t say anything until Malfoy does and when the question “How are you feeling?” is directed at him, he still hasn’t figured it out.

“Dizzy,” is what he answers even though it’s not exactly what it is; he doesn’t feel like he would fall if he stood up, more like his head is already falling. All the time.

“You look… split,” Malfoy says and he has _no idea._ Harry only mumbles in response and Malfoy taps his fingers, once, twice, on his own leg.

“How would you conjure a Patronus, right here, today?” The question manages to draw real confusion and surprise from Harry’s mind and he frowns. He finds that he doesn’t know what to answer to that, he hasn’t used that spell for many years. There hasn’t been any need for it. He goes through the list of things that he would use to cast it back when he was a teenager, but nothing comes back to him with the same sort of satisfaction and joy as it did then and he hasn’t created many happy memories since.

“I don’t know?”

Malfoy nods. Unsurprised, it seems. “Have you tried since the war?”

“No, why?” Harry asks, suspiciously.

But if Malfoy has a theory, he doesn’t want to share it just yet. “Would you try doing it now?”

“Why?” Harry repeats.

“Trust me.”

And Harry, however momentarily, _does_.

But conjure a Patronus, he can’t. He doesn’t know which memory to choose and once he thinks he has one, it slips out of his grasp and the spell falls flatter than it ever has. When he tries to just picture “happiness,” he doesn’t know what it looks like and it brings him closer to tears than he ever wants to be again near Malfoy.

“It’s okay,” Malfoy says when Harry blinks his vision clear, _fuck him,_ but then he continues, “I have never been able to do it.” Harry has to look at him again. Draco just gestures lazily between them with his index finger, a “you tell me, I tell you”-sort of gesture. “All I’ve ever managed was a slight ball of nothing-light that probably wouldn’t even fend off one dementor.” He looks Harry up and down, very quickly, and adds, “From what I’ve heard, you were thirteen when you fought off dozens of them with a true corporeal Patronus.”

Harry doesn’t mean to, but he blushes. He remembers the _light_ the spell had cast, how his stag had paraded around the lake and saved him and Sirius. How he hadn’t thought much of it right then, because it’d just been what he needed to do to survive, but he feels devastated at having Malfoy sounding impressed by a charm he managed almost effortlessly back then and now, a decade later, can’t even come close to. His voice feels thin when he says, “Long time since then.”

“We’ll find the way back.” And Malfoy sounds so confident about it, Harry almost believes him.

Draco is quiet for a beat, contemplating his next question and Harry really looks at him. Not at Malfoy, the blond little brat of eleven years that he’s hated forever, but the slim and rather refined man with exquisite clothing that he’s become. With a fancy, but—Harry must admit—fairly demanding job with a paycheck Harry can’t even begin to imagine. He’s made it for himself, professionally, and Harry wonders if he has in his personal life as well. Does he have friends? Lovers? Is he married? No, not married; he doesn’t have a ring. But happy then, is Draco Malfoy happy?

On cue, Malfoy asks, “Are you ever truly happy anymore?”

And the answer almost rolls of Harry’s tongue before he can stop himself: of course he is! He’s happy! Not all the time, but generally, yes. But as much as he wants it to be true, it is not. “Fleetingly,” he answers with a forced smile and Malfoy almost looks concerned. _I’m not happy._ He hasn’t been happy for a long time. It’s fucking pathetic, but, thankfully, the shame that comes with admitting such things to Malfoy is starting to ease.

They sit for another twenty minutes, Malfoy asking questions which Harry answers as truthfully as he can and sometimes Malfoy provides inside trivia about himself afterwards. To Harry, those are mindless things, but Draco said he’d tell him things about himself that he didn’t want Harry to know, which means there is _a lot_ about Draco’s life that he doesn’t want Harry to know. Then again, there are a lot of things Harry would rather have unspoken, so who is he to judge?

When Malfoy wraps up, he does so swiftly and definitely, and Harry _feels_ that he’s really overstaying his welcome when he doesn’t leave immediately. He wants to say something but all the words get stuck in his throat and that’s just as well because they all feel inadequate anyway. For what could possibly measure up to Malfoy giving him another chance, after Harry literally cursed him less than a week ago? What can he say to Malfoy for _believing_ in him despite there being nothing to believe in anymore?

Their handshake is long because Harry makes it long. He even takes Malfoy’s hand in both of his but he remains quiet, only stares at him with as much gratefulness as he can and it makes Malfoy look away.

After letting go of Harry, Malfoy sits down by his desk again and Harry hangs back a second more before finding it best to leave.

By the time he’s at the door, he still hasn’t thought of anything, but this is his last chance, so he turns around.

“Thank you,” he says and it’s barely a whisper but Malfoy hears it, Harry is sure, even if all he says in return is “show up” with his attention never shifting to Harry again.


	4. Paradise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco doesn’t know a better way of asking, so he just does. “Did he… Did he really _kill you,_ Harry?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Finally some answers for yall)

Ever since Draco went into Potter’s mind that first time, he’s had a _feeling_. Or maybe not a feeling, but an almost-thought; something he _nearly_ knows but hasn’t been able to fully figure out. It’s been in the back of his mind, especially since Monday when he had another little chat with _The Chosen One_ and their talk about happiness. Potter definitely isn’t the best with words, but he is an excellent wizard and when he couldn’t perform the Patronus charm, the wheels really started spinning in Draco’s mind. Everything leads back to that: Harry and his not-happiness. Draco has seen glimpses of happy memories, yes, but they were “lesser” memories and Potter has spoken of recent life as not having any concrete ones. Somehow, he can’t _hold onto them_ and that is when the machine inside of Draco’s mind come to a staggering halt. It can’t be something like _that_ … Can it? Knowing Potter, though, _anything_ is possible.

Their second appointment, Potter’s fourth visit, looks little like their first. Sure, they breathe and try to relax but Potter is quieter, antsier. It’s annoying. It’s like he thinks Draco might change his mind at any second and tell him to leave, and Draco kind of wants to reassure him that he won’t, but it seems too sappy, so he doesn’t. He’ll just have to live with Harry’s angst, however irritating.

When they decide it’s in their best interest to get on with it, Draco tells Harry to focus on recent memories as they surface.

“How recent?” is all Potter asks instead of laughing at the fact that he’s supposed to focus on anything. It makes Draco a little proud. It means they’ve come a tiny bit on their way.

He nods his head to the side. “Two years. No more than three.” Potter nods like he understands but Draco highly doubts he believes he will pull it off, not with the face he finally makes. Still a long way to go.  

“Pretend you don’t want me to see it.”

Potter mutters under his breath that he doesn’t actually want him to see _anything._  Because he sounds like a pouting child, Draco decides that a gentle jab might be better at pushing him to action and clearly remembering how affected Potter got after experiencing the memory of Wood, Draco rephrases.

“Pretend everything is as bad as me seeing you have… _relations_.”

And Potter snaps his mouth shut.

He doesn’t scream at Draco to stop once he raises his wand and the spell flows over his lips like it has so many times before, but it feels like something about Potter and today is very different. He can’t put his finger on what it is.

The first flashes are longer than they were the last time. They’re manageable, even if Draco can’t read much out of them, but it doesn’t matter because he’s not really focusing on them anyway. His attention is solely on real-life-Potter, on where Draco’s mind connects with his, where the lines cross, and whatever _Draco_ feels is unnecessary and pushed into the background, and where what Harry feels comes first. It’s tricky, especially since he doesn’t know Potter’s brain very well and the other man is unused to having Draco rumble about in there, but after a while, Draco can barely feel his own body anymore and he’s lost in Potter’s head.

It’s an unusual feeling, to say the least. He does not notice it before he goes back, so in the moment it’s nothing strange at all; it’s just him experiencing things he has never felt like that before, but once he’s back in his own mind, it can be rather overwhelming. Draco doesn’t usually dig like this; it’s more of a delicate art of perception and details that he usually works with, whereas now he needs the big picture. For what it’s worth, he can feel the pull of Potter’s Occlumency as they pass through image after image and he believes most of them are recent. Mostly because they’re rather extreme. Outrage and hopelessness, anxiety and panic, lust and desperation, uncertainty and irritation. It’s so _much_ all the time. Like he doesn’t have a filter. Like he doesn’t… Like he doesn’t have a _Paradise._

For the first time, Draco allows himself to really think the thought to an end because for the first time he can see that he’s right. When recent memories boil up and Potter manages to have them stay for longer than a second, they reek and they sort of _slip_ off of Potter/him _._ So few of them are positive, and the ones that are don’t have the right sort of punch. Even if Draco is as connected with Potter as he possibly can be, he doesn't feel connected enough to Potter’s brain, which means that _Potter_ isn’t connected enough to his own brain. It all makes no sense. It makes so little sense that it _does_ make sense. If that’s how it can be. It must because that’s what’s happening.

Draco leaves Potter’s brain faster than he meant to, feeling disoriented and like he might burst with the right sort of feeling his own brain has. The difference between the two of them is unbelievably striking once he’s back into himself, how Draco’s… _works_ and Potter’s just _doesn’t_.

“You’re… _wrong,_ Potter,” he says and it’s super unprofessional and he knows it, but what is he to do? Treat the man with kid gloves? That isn’t going cut it.

Potter just scoffs. “No shit.”

Draco wipes his forehead with his arm and tries to gather his thoughts. “No, no, I mean you’re…” and he can’t really find the word because there _isn’t_ a word for it. There isn’t a word to describe the wrongness that is present in Potter’s head, the lack, the emptiness, the instability. “...incomplete,” he finishes because it’s the best he’s got. The other man gives him a side glance like he isn’t sure whether to take Draco’s words very seriously or not.

“You found what’s up with me?”

“More like I _didn’t_ find it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Potter looks frantic.

Draco doesn’t know how to go at this, he really needs to gather his thoughts. He needs to calm down and he needs to be sensible, so he only tells Potter he needs to breathe and closes his eyes again, shutting Potter out completely. (Not before he hears him mutter "Jesus Christ,” though.)

What Draco knows: Harry Potter doesn’t have a Paradise.

What Draco doesn’t know: What that means in practice.

What Draco needs to figure out: How to explain a very complex theory about the human mind to a person that has the attention span of a teaspoon and also what to do with this new information about Potter.

Harry Potter seems to have done it again: He’s become someone that is way outside of the norm, that doesn’t fit the bill, and he hasn’t even done it himself. At least, Draco doesn’t think he has. But what has happened? How has he not got a Paradise? This is unheard of. It is as abstract as it is concrete and Draco finds himself just being more and more intrigued with what’s going on with every second that passes.

Professionally, Draco wonders if maybe he should ask for Potter’s permission to let other people inside his head. He is the person to end speculations about this theory, he’s the person to study to really know what is up with Paradises, he’s the person everyone will want to talk to.

Personally, Draco doesn’t want to _share_ Potter with anyone, and _that_ thought will keep him up at night.

He feels collected enough to continue after a few minutes, deciding that he’ll talk to Potter about potential research options at the end of their meeting and start by telling him the basics of what Draco’s found out so far.

“I’m going to explain a rather abstract theory and I need you to pay attention.” As he opens his eyes again, Potter isn’t sitting on the couch anymore; he’s pacing beside it. Of course. Five minutes of being left to his own devices and he’s climbing the walls. Brilliant.

He flops down again as he agitatedly says, “I’m not a child.”

“Debatable,” Draco says and continues before Potter has a chance to protest. “Every single person on this planet has thoughts, feelings, ideas, and impressions. Your brain filters a lot, usually to only enhance what it thinks might be important to us in the moment, but it also stores away everything once it has happened. Magical Healers, such as myself, have been studying it for centuries and what really happens once everything is stored away, what becomes of all that a person goes through. The conclusion that has been reached—but has never really been proven—is this: your brain creates a safe. It isn’t a Gringotts sort of safe, it isn’t a locked vault, but it _does_ contain valuable information; genuinely happy memories, things that have gone well, and things you remember fondly.” Draco gestures for Potter to confirm he’s following, which he does, and Draco continues.

“Now for the difficult part. This ‘safe,’ this _Paradise_ , as people have come to call it, is very fleeting at the same time as it is not. It supposedly edges on your everyday life, every minute of it, it’s just _there_ to help you on the outer rim of your brain. And as it is constant, it also expands. It savours your happiness, saves it and gives it back to you whenever you’re in need of it. It grows with you, meaning that when you’re an infant, a toddler, a child, your Paradise is small, you do not have access to a lot of happy memories which makes you shift feelings and emotions very quickly.

“As you grow older, you unconsciously fill your Paradise and you can tackle the smaller inconveniences more easily. Add another decade or two and you might need a lot of Paradise reassurance because you will most probably suffer through harder times, but the Paradise has also grown rather big, so you can handle everything.” Draco pauses for a second; up until this point, he is well read in the subject, he’s also explored this himself, but this is where everything becomes new and uncertain and he hesitates. ”This is where you come into the picture.” He coughs slightly. “You… don’t seem to _have_ a Paradise,” he finishes and Potter’s face goes completely blank.

“What.”

There is no use in trying to explain it again, so Draco just waits Potter out. Lets him turn it over in his head for a bit, taste what Draco just said and draw the conclusion that things are really fucking fucked up for himself.

When Potter finally says something, it’s unsure and like he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to be scared of the truth or angry at Draco for whatever he thinks is going on. “Are you... very intricately... telling me I’m a baby?”

“No, because even they have Paradises, just tiny ones. You don’t have one at all.”

There is complete silence after that. Draco lets it draw out, lets Potter decide when it’s time to break it, and just contemplates everything one more time. He remembers Potter as a vivid boy, strong in emotion but never like this. It makes him wonder, and guess that Potter must’ve _lost_ his Paradise at some point, and what on earth would possibly make such a thing happen in the first place? The Paradises aren’t really supposed to work like that; they should just _be there._ They’re not supposed to be able to disappear because as long as you’re alive, you’re in need of it, you add to it.

“Screws with me from beyond the grave,” is what Potter decides to fill the quiet with after a long, long while. Draco doesn’t really know what he’s talking about. Who’s dead? How many people are even alive in Potter’s life? Dead? Alive. _Alive._ And Draco gets a thought he hasn’t explored in a while but obsessed with right after the war. How he nagged his mother for information she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—provide and how he lay sleepless nights wondering over how life had played out in his favour in the end, but him not knowing _how_. Everything seems possible nowadays, everything feels possible with Potter, so there is no harm (he hopes) in asking.

“Something happened to you in the woods, that night, didn’t it?” Harry snaps his head up at the question; surprised, wary. Draco swallows and goes on like he knows Potter knows _which_ day he’s talking about because he should. “He thought you were dead, and there must have been a reason for that, right?”

Potter nods slowly. A defeated gesture. “There was.”

Draco doesn’t know a better way of asking, so he just does. “Did he… Did he really _kill you,_ Harry?”

~~

Harry has chosen not to think much about that.

The day, he has played over in his mind a million times, except for that specific occurrence. His death. His resurrection. That is a thing he hasn’t been wanting to dwell on because of the exact reason Malfoy has now given him. That something _happened_ to him in those woods, and it’s not his death that is the problem really; it’s the way he came back. _Incomplete,_ Malfoy had said. Harry is not _whole,_ and he is freaking out. Panic doesn’t creep up on him; it slaps him in the face and he can’t breathe, he can't breathe, he can't see, he can't see—

“Potter,” booms Malfoy’s voice through his head and Harry feels himself just _stop_ at the name. “Sit down.” And Harry sits down because it’s easier to listen and do what he’s told rather than moving without a goal. He hadn’t even known he’d started to rise from the couch until that moment and he silently wonders what he was even trying to do.

“Look at me,” but Harry can’t see him. As much as he tries, as much as he opens his eyes wide and stares towards where Draco’s voice is coming from, all he can see is a black wall with purple spots dancing around. And he still can’t _breathe._  He’s broken, he’s dead? He’s—

It isn’t until he can feel something grab his upper arm that he gains his sight back and when he does, he’s staring Draco Malfoy in the face. It’s… familiar. Familiar enough to be calming and Harry takes a quick breath. _Finally._

“More of that,” Malfoy says with a nod and Harry does as he suggests. Breath after breath. Forced and too short but he _is_ breathing. Incomplete and breathing. Here, and breathing. It is so much easier to deal with this when he’s not alone, he notes.

He feels rather normal before he realises that Malfoy is squatting in front of him, that his hand is clasped firmly around Harry’s arm, that his other hand sits just by Harry’s thigh on the couch, and that Harry feels comfort in all of this. It is strange.

“I’m good, now,” he says when having Malfoy touching him gets too weird, too intimate, and Malfoy goes back to his chair rather awkwardly, murmuring something about how physical contact can help during dysphoric panic episodes which Harry thinks is very strange because he usually just feels trapped whenever someone touches him when he’s going out of his mind. Maybe Malfoy has enough authority for this to work, though, however much it pains Harry to think so.

“Wanna share?” Draco asks after they’ve pointedly not looked at each other for a while.

Harry shuffles his foot against the floor upon which Malfoy decides to share _himself._

“I had panic attacks daily, you know back when.” His mouth is tight. This is one of the few things Draco’s said about himself where Harry really feels like he is exploiting himself and Harry forgets about breathing in a way that he just _does it_ without thinking. He asks who helped _Draco_ back then.

“Hm. Blaise,” is his answer.

It’s not very surprising to Harry. They always seemed to have been cast in the same mould. “You were close?”

“Still are. Back to you.”

Panic subdued, he can look back again but he avoids certain specifics. Maybe he should’ve been prepared to fall into an existential crises when starting therapy but he hadn’t been. He sighs. “I wish I could just show you a memory that explains it all,” he says because for once, that would be something he’d be willing to do. Just to not have to tell Malfoy all of this, just to get out of having to explain his fucked up life to anyone.

“Why don’t you?”

“I would have to show you thirty memories and it wouldn’t be enough,” Harry mutters. It’s a fucking shit show and he’s not even sure he himself fully understands it.

But Harry talks instead. He tells Draco about years worth of bits and pieces of information and happenings that, in the end, led up to his death. Horcruxes and Deathly Hallows, twin wands and mother’s love, sacrifices and crushed hope, Dumbledore and Voldemort. About the fact that he could speak Parseltongue, but not anymore, and how being in his aunt’s presence apparently was a protection for him, and the time Voldemort rose again in the cemetery.

“During the Triwizard Tournament,” Malfoy nods. “You weren’t even supposed to have entered.” He doesn’t say it like Harry would’ve thought he would; he says it like he’s mad about the fact that Harry was allowed to compete because it was irresponsible rather than mad that Harry _got to compete_.

“I didn’t want to, I never put my own name in the Goblet. Mad-Eye— Or, I mean, Crouch Junior did that. Tricked the cup.” Harry swallows because the memory of that night is hard to handle. So much… of everything. “What Voldemort resurrected,” he continues, “was one of the parts of his soul and when I was near him—and I don’t just mean that time but _every time_ I was near him or he was near me—there was a piercing ache in my head because the part of his soul that was _in me_ could feel the rest, I guess. It probably just wanted to be... _whole._  I think that night was a game changer, in a lot of ways, but mostly because it was when the wheels really started spinning for Dumbledore, when he realised that Voldemort had _a lot_ of these chopped up parts.”

Draco contemplates the whole story for a while. A long while.

“So, basically, what you mean to say is, in the end, he killed his own horcrux when he tried to kill you in the forest?” is what he settles on when he finally opens his mouth.

Harry is a bit taken aback, he would’ve thought there would be different, more questions. “He… yes. But he also _did_ … kill _me._ I think.”

“That’s irrelevant,” Malfoy says with a dismissive gesture.

 _“Irrelevant?”_ Harry echoes.

“Yes, because whatever happened, you came back. He didn’t. All evidence points to that and… I have a theory.”

Harry isn’t sure he actually wants to hear it, but he sighs a “shoot” and gestures for Draco to tell him. Draco sits straighter in his chair. “I think Voldemort _stole_ your Paradise. Just, ripped it out, took it with his dying breath. Probably held onto it while he was living in your mind and maybe that is one of the reasons for why you have never really seemed to be _completely_ at ease.”

When Harry doesn’t respond, Malfoy asks if Harry is not surprised this could be a plausible explanation. Harry shrugs. “He took a lot of things from me,” he says and touching his scar as he continues, ”gave me some I didn’t want, as well. He showed me death.” He finishes with a wicked grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Malfoy looks at him like he’s trying to figure something out. “Ah,” he says then. “Diggory.”

Harry’s stomach knots. He had meant in general, he’d meant everything, but Draco is, once again, correct anyway. “Cedric—” But his voice doesn’t hold, it quivers and dies.

Malfoy studies him for a long time again before saying, “You had a crush on him.”

Harry hates how obvious it is to Malfoy now, when back then it hadn’t even been clear to Harry himself. How misconception and never learning about the idea of being attracted to guys being an option had made him believe he was only jealous of the first champion of the Triwizard Tournament instead of realising he wanted to snog his face off. It had only made him even more confused when Cedric kept acting friendly around him, intensifying every feeling Harry had but couldn't comprehend until the other boy was lying dead on the ground and Harry, who didn’t have time to grieve his death before bigger threats were upon him, had realised that there had been more to the tingle in his gut than just jealousy. But he still didn’t label it fancy, so there wasn’t a name for it. There had been a million have-tos and no one to understand that Harry had so many mixed feelings about the boy’s death, no one to truly see his pain because he couldn’t put into words what he was feeling. It has taken years to recognize a crush on a boy as an actual crush and not just a comparison to himself. Thank god for Oliver Wood. Harry doesn’t want to think about Oliver in the close vicinity of Malfoy, though, so he just clears his throat and shifts in his seat.

“So what if I did?” He was going to be honest after all. Doesn’t mean he has to like it.

Malfoy half-shrugs, but it looks tense rather than relaxed. “You had a crush on him and Voldemort killed him.”

It is the first time Harry has heard Draco ever use the name and it makes him stop for a second and just look at him. See him again. How human he is and how far he is from the mental image Harry has had of him.

“He killed a lot of people,” he finally answers because he doesn’t want to talk more about his Hufflepuff crush. It’s dead and gone. Very literally so.

“He killed a lot of people that you loved,” Malfoy says and he doesn’t say it with pity, just very matter of factly, which is both better and worse. “He killed your parents, he killed a boy you fancied, he was the reason for so many deaths that gravely affected you, and here you are thinking that you _miss_ him.” The quiet drags out before Draco adds, “I see why you were scared.”

“I wasn’t scared of him,” Harry sneers because somehow, he never was. Of what he might do, to friends and family and even random people, yes, but when he thinks of the piteous man Voldemort was, he doesn’t remember him with fear.

“You mean, you never feared death.” And Malfoy is not wrong about that either. However stupid it is, Harry has never been truly afraid to die, not even when he walked into the woods that night. Dying has always just seemed… like something else. It might be an end when it comes to other people, but to him, death has always felt like moving on, ever since he was little.

“But,” Malfoy continues, “what I meant to say is that I can see why you were scared of your own feelings. Your mind. You thought that you missed having him in your head, this man who did nothing but surround you with loss and misery.” He sits up straighter in his chair again, leans forward and doesn’t let Harry move his gaze away. “Let us get this straight, though. What I believe, is that what you miss is not the Dark Lord but the piece that he clung to when he was inside your brain and later ripped out of you when he died. You do not miss those scenes he put in your mind, you do not miss your ‘connection,’ you do not miss him in _any_ way, just the part—or parts—of _you_ that’s missing because he stole them from you. The real question, though, is: do you believe me on this?”

Does Harry believe him? Believe that he’s fucked up but in a different way than he thought he was, believe Draco’s whole exposition about “paradises,” believe that something happened to him when he _died_ and came back to life, believe that he’s not the same who he was, and believe that he’s not bloody out of his mind?

Yes. He believes that to be true. He thinks he’d go mad if he doesn’t. “I do.”

Draco breathes out, rather discreetly but Harry catches it. His answer must have been more important than he thought.

“Then let us fix it,” Draco says. “Make you whole again.”

“How?” Harry asks because he’s not sure that completion is even an option.

Looking a bit sheepish, Draco answers with a truthful, “I have no idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter on saturday!


	5. Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How would you build it back?” he asks, finally, because it’s evidently the question all of his previous questions have led up to.  
> Blaise looks down at him. “What?”  
> “I need to help them build their Paradise.”
> 
> ~~
> 
> “The therapy is working,” Ron says then and both Harry and Hermione turn questioning looks upon him. Did he not see what just happened? Shrugging, Ron just says, “Malfoy must be doing something right because I’ve never seen you deal with your panic before. You usually just… ride it out.”

“What do you know about Paradises?” 

Draco uses that as a greeting as Blaise opens his door. He doesn’t even look surprised. It might be because it’s definitely not the first time Draco has done it. Not opened with that specific question, of course, but whenever Draco’s thoughts are stuck on a loop, he goes to see Blaise. The man does not only give amazing blow jobs and fucks like a god; he also knows a lot about things that Draco works with, seeing that he works in the same field. And they studied together for quite the number od years early on. Now, Blaise works at the Ministry, mostly with memory modification at the Muggle Liaison Office, but he has tapped into a lot of mind-buckets.

“Not very much,” Blaise answers with a shrug and decides against kissing Draco hello. Instead, they enter the apartment without  introductory  touch. “Just that it’s an old theory,” he says and flails a hand, ”that every person has their own ‘paradise’ inside their head that expands when you’re happy and helps you through times when you’re not. Just the basics.” They’ve made their way through Blaise’s house but now he stops in the bedroom, Draco almost crashing into him. He’s frowning. “Why you asking?”

Draco sits down on the bed without invitation and Blaise goes to pour them drinks by an old cabinet at the end of the room. It’s a bit risky for him to talk about this. He doesn't know how Blaise will react to this sort of information, so he stalls a second. He hopes Blaise will be interested just  _ enough. _

_ “ _ What if I told you… I’ve met a person  _ without  _ one?” Draco says as he accepts his glass and Blaise frowns even more as he sits down beside Draco. 

“Without a Paradise?” 

Nodding his head, Draco then takes a sip of the strong liquid and lets the heat soothe him as best he can. 

“Who?” Blaise asks, knowing well Draco can’t tell him. Patient privacy and all that, which Draco tells him—once again. Sometimes, Blaise is too big on gossip for his own good. 

“Fine,” Blaise says, giving up the fight before it has begun and downs his whole glass. “Then I’d say you’re crazy, no such thing can be proven. It’s a theory for a reason.” 

Draco twirls his glass, staring down at the golden liquor to not have to look at Blaise. Sex is always closer than talking when they haven’t seen each other for a week or two and Draco kind of just wants to discuss this because he is at a loss.  _ Wanting _ to help Potter (however weird it seems) and  _ actually _ helping Potter are two very separate things and even if he wants to do the second, he doesn’t know how to. It has been three weeks, three more sessions with Harry, and Draco has gotten absolutely nowhere. “Blaise, I know. But I’m sure of it. They don’t have one.” 

Sighing, Blaise puts away his glass and flops down on the bed. “Let us just stay in that for a moment, yeah? No Paradise. Say that is true. It’s gotta be hell. The Paradise is supposed to keep you swimming, help you react,  _ not  _ react, ease your pain, enhance your happiness, it’s… How did it happen? Or did they  _ never _ have one?” 

Draco looks over his shoulder, down to see Blaise looking back and then at the sliver of skin exposed on his lower stomach. Maybe Draco wants that sex pretty soon, too.

“They lost it,” he says, though. “They had a small one for many years and then it expanded quickly and much for a few, and then it disappeared. Without giving any details, it’s just like… _fuck._ Unbelievable. He’s just—” 

Blaise coughs Draco quiet. “You should not have said that.”

“What?” 

“You said ‘he.’ You’re on your way to breaking this confidentiality agreement. Gender of the patient is included.” 

Draco wants to hit his head on something hard. “Shit.” Maybe he should just wrap his mouth around something hard. If Blaise’s eyes would’ve been open, he would’ve rolled them, but instead, he just gestures for Draco to lay beside him. Draco empties his glass in a quick gulp and does as Blaise wants. It seems he has understood that he isn’t getting Draco naked anytime soon, though, because he asks for symptoms as Draco makes himself comfortable on Blaise’s arm. 

“Memory loss, memories lessening, unexpected and unplanned use of magic without a wand or spell, unable to hold a job or a partner or an anything, close to all feelings, switching between them instantly, unable to relax. To name a few.” 

Harry is almost reduced to his mind’s changing and he hasn’t much to say, it is a wonder he’s gotten as far as he has with Draco. Draco likes to take it as a clear sign that he  _ really  _ is good at his job. 

“Damn,” Blaise says, his fingers moving over Draco’s neck, chin, ear. 

“Yeah. Don’t touch the hair,” Draco says, knowing that it will take him five minutes undressed until his hairdo is destroyed but that doesn’t mean he wants it to be so before.  

Blaise snorts. “Primadonna.” But he does stroll his hand away from Draco’s hair and back over his neck. Losing himself in this small pleasure for a minute, Draco relaxes next to his best friend. Untangles his stiff muscles, one at a time, and when he feels like he’s almost going to drift to sleep, he speaks again.

“How would you build it back?” he asks, finally, because it’s evidently the question all of his previous questions have led up to. 

Blaise looks down at him. “What?” 

“I need to help them build their Paradise.” 

“You’re asking me how to construct a thing that isn’t even a thing but a theory you have just proven by this  _ one _ specimen?” If Blaise thought him crazy before, it has nothing on what he looks to think now. Maybe he is. Maybe both him and Potter are crazy for even trying.

Draco shrugs, a little defeated. “Any ideas you have. Help a friend.” 

Blaise takes this opportunity to fit their mouths together, proving that maybe they’re a little more than  _ friends.  _ They love each other platonically and are attracted to each other sexually, and to have this kind of relationship has never felt anything other than perfect. It means Draco has a secure shag and a friend in the same person and Draco doesn't have many people close to him and neither does he want to, so to have Blaise, just like this, has always seemed convenient. Blaise does wonders with his body too, no question, but for the first time, Draco feels… just slightly  _ off _ when Blaise bites at his lips and lets out a ragged breath as Draco returns the gesture. 

“But seriously,” Draco says when Blaise starts tugging at his clothes. “Advise me before you take advantage of me.” Blaise laughs quickly at that, muttering “advantage, my arse” (Draco is confounded, it is  _ his  _ arse after all) but he does look like he does a bit of thinking. Draco studies him as he does. Sometimes he wishes they were  _ in  _ love, it would be so much simpler, but most of the time he doesn’t because Blaise would be a terrible boyfriend, what with all the casual fucking going around. Draco would just be jealous, a feeling he hates, and they’d probably be over before they knew it. It is better this way. But it isn’t what Draco would call “optimal” for his own needs either. 

Blaise finally shrugs. “Use the source of magic.” 

Draco nods like he’s not at all totally  _ stupid  _ to not have thought of it himself. “The ground rule for Legilimency and Occlumency. Of course.” He should just give up his Healer license immediately;  _ that  _ should’ve probably been his first thought. At least second.

Blaise gestures his approval and says the magic word. “Focus.” 

And isn’t that the truth? If you’re focused enough, you can do anything. Magic is basically built on that: concentration of the mind as well as the wands to channel, to  _ focus,  _ that power of will. Of course, that was a logical answer for a lost Paradise. In order to create a new one, one would have to concentrate a large number of positive feelings in a small enough area inside one’s mind and— 

Blaise rolls his hips, saying, “Can we stop talking about solving Potter now? It makes me feel like we’re back in school; plus, it’s killing my boner.” 

Draco’s triumphant smile vanishes. “I never said it was Potter?” he says faintly. 

“Draco, darling,” Blaise replies with a patronizing smile, ”you’ve gotten the exact same sheen in your eyes when talking about him since you were eleven years old. It’s a look reserved for him and I would recognise it in a heartbeat.”

“Fuck me,” Draco says because he didn't even know he had a special way of talking about  _ Potter  _ and why has Blaise never told him this  _ before?  _

“Finally,” Blaise says instead and grabs Draco’s wrists, rolling them over and he’s pinned down, hands slammed into the mattress beside his head and Blaise showing off a sly grin before Draco has a chance to do anything else. “Let's get your mind busy with other things, yeah?” he coos. 

“Hm,” Draco responds and it takes him a few seconds before he sees the exasperated look on Blaise’s face. “Oh, yeah, of course,” he agrees then, placing hands on his cheeks and drawing him in for heated kisses. “Of course.” 

But his mind never  _ really _ leaves Harry Potter. 

~~

It has become custom—understandable but weird—to think about Draco Malfoy whenever Harry tries to relax. Of his stupid breathing exercises, and he will not admit it, but they work when his heart or mind is going bananas and he doesn’t know what else to do. He thinks of the way Draco has explained how counting while breathing can help, to focus away from other things while actually having something easy to think of. Breathe in through the nose on one, two, three and hold for just a little while and breathe out through the mouth on four, five six, and hold up just a second. It took Harry almost an hour the first time to not make himself dizzy or feel like he was suffocating as well as figuring out he could start the count over when breathing out. Malfoy said it was fine, as long as he didn’t rush it, he could think of any three things in consecutive order. Could be A B C, but one usually used numbers because it’s the most logical and people have some sort of built-in mechanism to count in the same pace over and over. 

So Harry closes his eyes and thinks of Malfoy’s voice counting for him and he breathes. Too fast to begin with, but as he keeps going, the world eases up and he slows down, deeper and deeper breaths, slower and slower heartbeat. His mind is ones and twos and threes and Malfoy. 

He realises he’s around people when someone whispers his name close by. He swallows and doesn’t reply; he needs to be back to completely “normal” before doing so because if he is, he might actually know where he is and who’s talking to him before he opens his eyes. Now, when he inhales, he can smell the cinnamon, then the citrus soap. One, two, three. All of a sudden he feels warmth hitting his face; a fireplace. Malfoy saying “ _ and exhale _ ” and Harry does. It must be Hermione, he conducts. It’d been a female voice. Luna must still be out of town and if he remembers correctly, today is Tuesday which means Ginny would not be available seeing as she has practice, and his latest female fuck-buddy told him to go to hell over two months ago. Ergo, Hermione. 

“Harry?” she says again. This time, he opens his eyes and the Granger-Weasley household unravels before him. He stares at Ron who sits in the couch opposite Harry, body relaxed but eyes wary. 

“Alright, mate?” he asks and Harry nods. Hermione delicately puts her hand on Harry’s arm and he turns towards her. She looks concerned, brows knitted tighter than the Weasley sweater she’s wearing and she’s biting her lip. 

“I’m fine,” Harry says and it comes out too hoarse, he even has to cough and say it again just to make sure she believes him. She doesn’t.

“Of course you’re not.” 

Today, it was nothing more than thoughts that sent him spinning. Thoughts about his broken mind and the way Malfoy has searched even more places of Harry’s head to see if there would be a sliver of a Paradise, a piece left, and all they’ve found are memories Harry rather would've kept locked away, and not anything of use. There had been a downwards spiral: this is nice, I think I’m happy right now, so I have to hold on, because it will disappear, because I don't have a Paradise that’ll keep it, I don't have a Paradise, I’m broken, I might be dead, I'm not actually here, I can’t breathe. 

“The therapy is working,” Ron says then and both Harry and Hermione turn questioning looks upon him. Did he not see what just happened? Shrugging, Ron just says, “Malfoy must be doing something right because I’ve never seen you  _ deal  _ with your panic before. You usually just… ride it out.” 

Truth be told, Harry has never really  _ tried  _ anything like this before he met Malfoy because he’s never had the tools that Draco has taught him. Breathing, focusing, counting. Harry isn’t an expert, as very well proved, but if Ron can notice a difference then something must be going in the right direction. Maybe he’s right and just this once, things are going in the direction they should. 

“They are coping techniques,” Harry says and doesn’t correct Ron’s assumptions about Draco’s practice. Sure, it’s a kind of therapy, but Draco’s focus lies with magically deviances, curse-caused problems, not regular depression, anxiety, or PTSD. Harry might need traditional therapy for all three of those, too, but for now, Draco and his Paradise reconstruction will have to be enough.  

Hermione finally sits back on the couch, fingers mindlessly rubbing over Harry’s upper arm still. It’s what she has taken to do as soon as he comes back, keep contact with him and he doesn’t know if it is for his comfort, her comfort, or for the fact that she would be close enough to stop him from doing whatever he could be doing if he goes off again. In any way, it helps him to feel connected with himself and the world so he won’t tell her to stop. 

They try to make him come over for dinner at least once a week and sometimes they don’t allow him to skip out. Like today. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

“About what?”

Hermione shakes her head. “Anything,” she says despite the fact that Harry  _ knows  _ she meant something more specific. This attack? His sessions? Malfoy? His problems? Coping? 

“There’s not  _ really _ any progress,” he says and taps the side of his head. “Still fucked.” 

“Harry, don’t say that,” Hermione pleads, and Harry rolls his eyes. He knows he is and it’s not like he can hide that he is. Might as well indulge.

“We’re working on it, but it’s apparently not very easy.” 

“Never is, never is,” says Ron and they share a sad look. Most of his family went to traditional therapy after the war; Molly and Ron still do. They tried with George, but… he never went. Harry thinks he just didn’t want to share those sacred things he had had with his brother with anyone.

Harry nods and looks away. “Draco tries his best and so do I.” Because they do. Harry lets him roam around, gives way whenever he asks things Harry doesn’t actually want to talk about and answers anyway, he hasn’t complained even once about their ridiculous time schedule and he hasn’t hexed Malfoy more than that one time. And Malfoy in return seems to work hard at coming up with ways for Harry to regain what he’s lost, trying out different techniques and asking a lot of questions about various things that might be connected to their case. Sometimes, when he can see that Harry is particularly bugged or uncomfortable during a session, he offers truths and secrets about himself. He talks, with red ears and a flat voice, of overcoming the pure disgust he felt every time he got undressed and saw his mark, about that time he wet the bed in sixth year, that he has seriously considered leaving the wizarding community several times, that he gets stomach aches whenever he sees a copy of The Daily Prophet, about that woman who spat him in the face just after the war ended, about everythings and nothings. Just as embarrassing or raw or sad as whatever Harry is facing at that moment. It doesn’t make it easier to open up, but it makes him feel less alone, less exposed. It is probably the reason for why Harry had even made it to these past appointments; knowing that letting Malfoy know things only makes him try to help Harry better and the fact that Malfoy also has these sorts of things to share because he’s lived through some pretty deep shit as well. 

Harry realises that the couple is giving him funny looks and he asks what’s up. 

“Oh, nothing,” Hermione says. 

“You called him ‘Draco,’” Ron says. Hermione gives him a murdering glare which Ron ignores. 

“It’s just a little odd,” she reassures. 

Maybe it is. Harry doesn’t even wish to care about it. After all the shit they’ve been through, after everything they’ve shared, maybe  _ Malfoy  _ has deserved to become something else, someone else. Maybe it’s time Harry owns up to his own prejudice and stops thinking about the man that helps him—even if he shouldn’t, doesn’t have the time, nor has no serious reason to—as someone who is not worth any of Harry’s… affections. Maybe he deserves a little respect, a little gratitude, a little tolerance. Maybe he deserves the name that is purely his and has no connotations to things he most definitely wants to distance himself from. Maybe it’s time for Harry to let eleven-year-old Malfoy finally grow into adult Draco. 

Harry doesn’t tell his friends that Draco sometimes calls him “Harry” as well, that Draco shares many parts of his life with him, he doesn’t tell them about how determined he is to make sure Harry gets a Paradise. He doesn’t tell them any of these things, but what he says is, “I think we’ve gotten to a stage where the two of us can be mature enough to let go of petty childhood rivalry.” 

Harry’s friends don’t say anything, but accept this explanation and maybe, just maybe, they’ll let Malfoy become a little bit more Draco with that, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter of monday!


	6. Childhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ve seen your uncle and aunt several times. They’ve never given me a good feeling.” Draco wonders for a second if it’s wise to continue before he adds, “I feel like air.”  
> Harry scrunches his nose. “Air?”  
> “There, but no one thinks of me.”

“I’ll be in my bedroom, making no noise, and pretending I don’t exist.” 

Potter says it in a prepubescent voice and it’s scary how distant and  _ normal  _ it seems to him, whereas Draco suddenly feels very uneasy. 

There has been unusually little popping up regarding Harry’s early childhood, but Draco can tell this sort of thing was a common occurrence. He has seen enough glimpses to know that there will not be many happy memories from these years—the years before Hogwarts—to build around. It takes away almost half of Harry’s life, more than half of the time he actually had a Paradise. It doesn’t bode well. 

Draco also hasn’t brought up Harry's family relations during their time face to face, and not mind in mind, but he thinks maybe this particular event is worth exploring further. 

“And that was your… family?” he asks after reverting back to himself. 

Harry keeps his eyes closed for another second before he nods and makes a face like it’s supposed to be obvious that it was. Draco feels his stomach turning. He himself might not have had the most precious childhood, but his parents had always been there for him, tried to help him, and shape him into the person he is, whereas Harry’s “family” had stirred things in Draco he doesn’t really want to touch. He’d felt inadequate, like he didn’t matter, and even if Harry himself hadn’t shown those emotions, Draco had been distant enough to have his own feeling but close enough to hate the way Harry had reacted.

Draco knows Harry doesn’t see many people. There’s Granger and Weasley, Lovegood, and Longbottom. Harry has hinted on someone else, but kept securely hidden to who they are. Perhaps a boyfriend, because even if he has considerably eased up on that area, he still looks like he wants to throw up every time they happen to come across a memory about such matters. Then again, Harry hasn’t been able to keep a partner before, why should he now? In any case, Draco has not heard or seen anything about  _ these _ people, Harry’s family, as if they were present. So he asks, “Are they like that? Still?” 

Harry shrugs and confirms Draco’s suspension. “I don’t know, I don’t see them.” 

“Why?” Draco can come up with several answers of his own just by the things he’s seen. 

“Never much cared for them,” Harry says, shrugging again. “They never much cared for me.” There’s no malicious intent, there’s no hate, there are just facts in his voice. Not like he’s forgiven and forgotten, but like he doesn’t seem to care. It’s unsettling. 

“I’ve noticed,” Draco says. 

Harry looks at him. “You saw a few seconds. They didn’t even say anything.” Like what  _ Harry _ said hadn’t been enough. 

“I’ve seen your uncle and aunt several times. They’ve never given me a good feeling.” Draco wonders for a second if it’s wise to continue before he adds, “I feel like air.”

Harry scrunches his nose. “Air?”

“There, but no one thinks of me.” 

It seems to take Harry aback. He sags down in the couch, fingers absently rubbing over each other. He seems to chew it over. “You make it sound so… sad,” he says. 

“Isn’t it?” Draco wonders, first to himself and then aloud. 

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

It’s obvious Harry doesn’t like to talk about it, but by the indifference he feels towards them all, Draco must wonder why that is. If he doesn’t feel anything particular towards his aunt, uncle, cousin, why doesn’t he want to talk about them? Is there something underlying that Draco’s missing? “I’d say most definitely.” Being raised in neglect doesn’t feel like an upbringing at all; Harry just got older. No wonder Hogwarts became his home, no wonder he’s mourning the loss of his Paradise after having it monumentally cared for after such a long period of disregard. 

“Like your childhood was any better.” 

Draco’s not sure what the intention of the jab is, but at first, it makes him angry. For Harry to just assume because of the things that he knows. Draco had never been forced to pretend he didn’t exist. He had been forced to play nice and be quiet when his parents had dinner guest, but that was different. He had been allowed at the table, he’d been given food, he’d been asked questions and had been expected to answer them. Never had his parents wanted him somewhere else, or not at all. They’d surely wished he’d grown up to become someone other than he’d done, but adapted to what they’d gotten. A great many things in his childhood had indeed been bad, much rooted in bigoted traditions and his wishes overlooked, that didn’t mean it had fundamentally been a  _ bad _ childhood. And it certainly doesn’t mean he’d had it as bad as Harry. Draco cocks his head. He doesn’t like pity, so he doesn’t allow himself to express it. “Harry, my parents love me.” 

It’s the most simplest fact. Harry doesn’t seem to take it as such because he fists his hands and clamps his teeth together. “Fuck you,” he says. 

Draco blinks and takes a breath. “No, no,” he says, “I didn’t mean that  _ yours _ didn’t.” He has heard enough about the day that they died to know that they would’ve done anything for their son. That wasn’t the point. “I just meant that your immediate family left alive isn’t at all like my parents. They’ve been strict at times, very loose at others, but they’ve never really been bad parents. Your aunt and uncle—your uncle in particular from what little I’ve seen—have abused you.” 

The anger flickers into confusion quickly. “Abused me? Grown-ups never hit me.” There’s a confession in that.

“But your cousin did?” When Harry doesn’t answer, Draco continues. “I figured. But, also, Harry, abuse doesn’t always show in the form of physically hurting someone with fists. It can be neglecting someone and their needs, which they obviously did. You don’t make a twelve-year-old say they are going to pretend they don’t exist for the benefit of yourself. You just don’t.”

Harry dries his hands on his trousers. “You’re blowing it out of proportion,” he says and gestures towards Draco. He pats the air, eyes closed, as if to push down any thoughts and feelings this statement arises. It’s not the area Draco had intended to focus on, especially not with the Paradise missing, but it seems maybe this is something they should discuss. It’s not something he sees on the regular, but often enough that he can identify repressed trauma when looking at it closely enough. He almost feels bad because he finds it interesting. 

“I think you’re not looking closely enough. I’ve seen you, Harry, since you were eleven years old. I know you pretty well, whatever you might think. You have a hard time asking for help, and I believe it’s simply because you never learned how to.”

“You’ve got me all figured out.” Harry scoffs, closes off. 

“But I’m not off, am I?” Draco leans forward, almost puts a hand on Harry’s knee, but confused by his own impulses, decides against it. “I’ll bet you weren’t encouraged to ask for anything. You’ve sacrificed yourself for the greater good far more times than the average person, why? Because you were chosen to do so? Or because you saw yourself as disposable because people around you did? Because what is little Harry’s life compared to everyone else’s?” Any other patient and that would’ve been worded vastly different. Harry is not good for Draco’s professionalism. 

“Shut up.” For the first time since their first session, Harry stands as if to leave. 

“Let me tell you what I think,” Draco says and ignores the gesture. “I think Harry Potter is a man that has been through enough, that it’s time for him to get his life in order, and to just think of what he wants and how to get there. I think he’s in no need to save anyone from anything. I think it’s time for him to be able to relax a little. I think you storming into my practice is the best decision you’ve ever made because it’s all about you, getting yourself the help you need and in all honesty, I’m very honoured to be a part of your recovery.”

Harry looks like he’s decided to do seven things all at once and has come to a standstill cause he’s not able to do any of them. He looks like he wants to leave, wants to scream, wants to punch Draco, wants to cry, wants to laugh, wants to sit down. He says, “Sod off.” His voice gives him away. It’s a maniac combination of disbelief and chill humor. Like Draco’s lying, or worse: joking. 

“Sit your arse back down, Potter,” Draco snarls and surprisingly, Harry sits back down. “Do not undermine yourself nor my respect; you matter.” Even to himself, it sounds like he wants to continue with  _ to me.  _ They both ignore it. 

The thing is, because of everything Draco has seen and learned about Harry, Draco has realized one vital notion. Harry Potter has been used and abused for most of his life and he has deserved none of it. What he deserves, is a chance to a somewhat normal life, and that has given Draco only one option when it comes to the whole Paradise situation. Draco will not tell anyone about it. He won’t even ask him to share himself with other Healers. His mind might be a magical wonder, but he is all but a man who has been through trauma. Draco, however much he doesn’t exactly enjoy the revelation, just wants to keep him safe. His health is more important than what Draco or anyone else wants. 

Harry says, “I thought we were going to focus on positive things.”

Draco clears his throat. Harry is looking at him, a little grumpy but hinting on curious. He’s right, so Draco agrees and doesn’t explain his silence. “Fine. Tell me about a good childhood memory with your family.” 

~~

Harry’s rendered quiet. He tries to open his mouth several times but he realises over and over that he has nothing to say. Happy childhood memories? He barely has those. He tries to conjure some, bend some to become better than they evidently are, but most he wouldn’t even classify as “decent” on a normal day and now, dizzy with Draco’s confessions and theories, there’s nothing. 

“I have no good ones with them,” he says finally.

“What’s the first one you got?”

“Hagrid made me a cake for my eleventh birthday.” 

“Show it to me?” 

“I… It’s not that simple.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s just a part of the memory. It’s only a part of the feeling.”

“And the rest?”

How is Harry supposed to make him understand the rest? That they didn’t want him to read his letter so they’d driven away, rowed out to an island and were stranded in a house without heat and food? That Harry hadn’t even been all that surprised about all of it, even if it had been a bit extreme. “Rubbish,” he settles on. “Oh, except that Hagrid gave my cousin Dudley a pig's tail and told me I was a wizard.” 

Draco looks at him like he’s mad, but holds back any comment he has. Instead, he’s quiet for a while. “But the cake, that was the most important part?” he asks then. “More important than magic or your cousin’s demise?” 

“I guess. Magic was still unreachable, Dudley being ridiculed was something I sometimes did myself. But I had never gotten a cake on my birthday before. And no one had ever  _ made _ me something before either.”

“Okay. Let’s work with that.”

And so they do. For weeks, all they do is sit and talk, reminiscence or try to grasp and hold onto memories that mean something. For some reason, Harry finds this even worse than all the embarrassing and sad and angry things. This is so much more intimate. Where he has to confess that, yes, I think riding a train is a nice memory. What irks him the most, though, is that he can’t see any improvement. Everything feels the same. Everything is the same. He can admit he hasn’t lost a day in a while now, but that’s about it. 

A month rolls by quickly. Time is unbelievable and hard to obtain, and soon he’s not sure how long they’ve kept this up for. Their sessions blur into one long instead of separate ones, he can’t place when things happen. It might be another symptom, he thinks, so he tells Malfoy about it. He, in turn, doesn’t seem concerned. 

For the session when things change, Malfoy is wearing a dark green three-piece. Harry notices because it’s the first time he’s worn green. It’s the first time he’s prided himself with the Slytherin colours in Harry presence. It’s not distracting, but it makes Harry look down at his own battered jeans and washed out hoodie and wonder if maybe he should buy some new clothes. 

They’re well into Harry’s mind when Malfoy decides to step out and when Harry glances at him, he looks less pinched than usual. Harry asks him what's up and then there’s actually a small smile creeping onto his lips. It looks so genuine, Harry doesn’t know what to feel.

“Didn’t you notice?” 

Harry has yet to get used to his cryptic, half-rude questions. “Obviously not.” 

Draco puts his head between his thumb and index fingers and regards him. “How long would you say we stayed in the Great Hall today? How long did you laugh? How many of these memories made you feel nice? Give me a ballpark.” 

Harry frowns. “We went in for maybe a minute?” 

Malfoy holds up two fingers, almost too  ecstatically . “Two full minutes, Potter, with a normal flow of jumps, with special focus on things positive. Do you realise how absolutely amazing that is?” His tone doesn’t suggest he’s joking, but it’s still hard to take him seriously. Harry waves him off.

“So what?”

Malfoy takes it as an insult and leans forward in his armchair. “‘ _ So what?’ _ ” He snorts like Harry’s being ruder than normal. Harry just shrugs. So Malfoy snaps his fingers at him. “That is progress. You’re getting better at Occlumency; your Paradise is  _ expanding _ .” 

He looks up. “I thought I didn’t have a Paradise?”

“You didn’t.” 

The future suddenly seems less dark. If Malfoy can see the difference… He’d used past tense.  _ You didn’t. _ A quiet flame of hope starts burning and Harry licks his lips in anticipation before he asks, “But… now I do?” 

The possibility opens up so many doors. Does that mean he can get better? For real? That he can literally focus a safe space into place so that he can go on with his life;  _ live _ ? 

In the quiet moment they share before Malfoy answers, Harry’s head buzzes with a million things he’d like to do, people he wants to pick up contact with, hundreds of books he wants to finish. Maybe,  _ maybe _ , he can finally settle down. Alone, at first, then maybe even with a partner. Find love again. The thought makes him feel warm all over, that maybe now, someone can love him, someone can deal with him because he’s cured not cursed, because now he’s not a complete lunatic who goes off the deep end for any little inconvenience. 

The thought is liberating before it turns sour. What then, if nothing changes at all? Harry’s fine, but nothing works out because he’s just such a lost cause. He’s been like this for years and he had a hard time already before, why would it suddenly be different? 

He runs through more emotions in that short silence than should be possible, but none of them… stick. They’re available, felt, but they’re not making him filled to the brim and it’s the first time in forever that he recognizes feeling like that. Maybe that does meaning something. And maybe that is something Harry can finally call a win.

Voldemort killed Harry’s parents. He killed the first boy Harry ever loved. He stole them and so many others. He stole Harry’s whole fucking childhood. He stole Harry’s Paradise. That, Harry decides, is the last thing that man ever gets to steal from him. There’s not much he can do about any of the other things, but he has worked his arse off to somehow fix this Paradise lost. And now... 

And now Malfoy nods. “Now, it seems you’ve willed one into existence.”


	7. Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he opens the door, Harry Potter glides in with it, desperate eyes searching for something they cannot find, he claws at his own throat and his lips are parted in a silent scream; he’s only breathing inwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I thought this a fitting chapter to post from the ER waiting room while my sleep also is stolen. Everything alright, but very tired EDIT: everyting was checked and cleared, got home at 3am)

There is a crash, which wakes him up. There's a thud that makes him suspicious. The rest is just Draco being restless and already awake and so he goes to see what the ruckus is about. When he opens the door, Harry Potter glides in with it, desperate eyes searching for something they cannot find, he claws at his own throat and his lips are parted in a silent scream; he’s only breathing inwards.

“Merlin’s, Potter,” Draco says and he tries to make it sound composed rather than frightened because Potter doesn't need him to freak out, he needs him to be steady. Draco quickly falls to his knees, bringing Harry to sit up against the door and only says “exhale.” Harry shakes his head and Draco firms his grip on him.

“I’ll just leave you here, then?”

“ _Piss off._ ” The words almost disappear in the gush of air they are followed by and the whole ordeal seems to take Harry by surprise. The tension is set, but it eases a tiny bit when Harry now finally breathes in both directions and Draco counts, hyperventilating one-twos, where one is inhale and two is exhale. Harry keeps his eyes steady on Draco’s and Draco doesn’t dare to look away if this, right here, is Potter’s only line to reality.

By the time they’re down to counting to three, both in and out, Draco finally feels his legs, and how they hurt. It’s when he’s moving, adjusting so he can sit on his darn arse instead of the soles of his feet that Harry breaks. He is strong to have held out for so long, Draco thinks as Harry ducks his head onto Draco’s chest and cries in the same way he did at Draco’s office that time. Raw. Unhinged. But he doesn’t feel like he’s embarrassed today. In the light from the single street lamp outside of Draco’s apartment door―that’s still open―Draco can’t see much but Harry feels… reassured against him as he sobs. He doesn’t hide from Draco as much as it feels like he’s hiding from the world and Draco has a hard time knowing what to do with that. What he settles on, is settling back. He leans against the wall in the narrow hallway, Harry draping over his side and he sort of _tucks him_ there. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s also _not_ , at the same time. Draco finds one of his own hands rubbing Harry’s arm and the other stroking the top of his head, fingers brushing through his curls like he’s done nothing else in his entire life than comforting the Golden Boy.

It’s with the tip of his fingers, right there on top of Potter’s head, that he finds it. The _splinch._ Just behind Potter’s ear, he can suddenly feel a patch of skin that’s just not supposed to be there. Something’s missing and Draco’s fingers fly over the area several times before he realises what it actually is. He holds up, and asks, “Did you _apparate_ here?”

The only answer he gets is a resigned “mhm.” Potter has quieted down and it’s probably why Draco lets himself be worried. “Are you bloody insane?!” He pushes Harry’s head up so it falls into the light stream and inspects the area where a chunk of hair is missing. The skin is flaming red but there’s no blood which is always a good sign. Draco makes sure there are no other patches of hair missing.

“I couldn’t…” Harry says and pulls his head out of Draco’s grip. “I didn’t think.”

“Clearly,” Draco says and then the both of them are sitting, limbs still half tangled, both by their common senses, and it is then that Draco realises that _this_ is not what he’d expected at four o’clock on a Tuesday night, or _ever,_ from Potter. He pushes the thought aside, then makes sure that there’s no other part of Harry missing because he’ll be damned if Harry Potter dies of blood loss from a splinch in Draco’s hallway, in Draco’s arms.

When Draco is sure there’s nothing else wrong, and his hand has involuntarily found itself to Harry’s head again, Harry says, “It doesn’t even hurt.” Like that would make it alright that he splinched himself in a panic attack while apparating to Draco’s doorstep. Draco gives him a look from under eyebrows and Harry has the decency to look away, slightly embarrassed. Soon, he’ll probably realise that he’s propped up against Draco as well, and embarrassed will only be the start of it.

Harry starts saying something, but he gets interrupted by noise from inside the apartment. He turns to look; Draco already knows it’s Blaise so he doesn’t. He keeps looking at Harry. Harry with his glasses askew, as round as always, still taped together. That he hasn’t learned the spell to fix them yet is probably just another sign of him not being mentally well. When was the last time he even learned a new spell? When was the last time he used one he knows? All Draco has seen and heard has been Harry busting out the big moves by doing spells involuntary, causing trouble. Maybe he should do more magic. Draco sees Harry, a boy in a grown man’s body, yet someone who was never allowed to be a boy in the first place and it’s mindblowing how Draco has looked at this same face a million times before and never found the things he’s finding now. It’s like Harry’s eyelashes are spelling the truth of the world and the cupid of his lip is what carries it and his cheeks are the colour that painters dedicated their whole lives to find. Draco looks at this man and he cannot understand what has changed. It is still Potter, but somewhere that has become something else, something more, something… sacred. Something Draco wants to protect, something Draco wants to help, to comfort, to be alright. Draco looks at this beautiful man—

“I think someone just broke into your house.”

Draco has to muster a lot of self-control to ignore the rest of his thoughts, to ignore parts of the ones he already thought. “It’s Blaise,” he says. “He sleeps here, sometimes.”

Potter gives him a look. “That close?” he says.

He gives himself a reality check when grey eyes meet green and he realises that there’s nothing to find there. That this is a figment of his imagination, that whatever, if ever, Harry would feel _anything,_ it wouldn’t be real, it would be… something Draco’s helped create and that’s just not the way it’s supposed to be. Which is why he says, “Best friends. With, ehm”―he clears his throat―”with benefits.”

“Oh. Okay.” And Draco sees the look, but he chooses to ignore it and Harry, in turn, chooses not to move away. It’s not safe. Draco already regrets saying anything at all.

“I haven’t told a lot of people about my…” He takes another approach and starts over. “Many presume to know, of course, and tend to dislike me for it, so I don’t make it everyone’s business.” It’s pointed enough for Potter to understand that this should not leave this hallway.

“You’re an arsehole, that’s why people don’t like you.”

Draco snorts. “Forgive me, but I won't be taking any coming out-advice from _you_ , Potter.” Through red-cried eyes, Harry grins like it wasn’t a very offensive remark. Draco allows himself to give a tiny smirk. Then Blaise makes some more noises and that little moment is vanished.

“I should be going,” Harry says and he starts moving immediately.

Draco doesn’t mean to but he runs his hand over Harry’s hair one last time, stopping where there is a patch missing. “Did this happen?” he asks.

Harry stills and studies him, his face just as much of a mess as his hair. He looks away before he says, “No.”

Draco nods. It’s for the best. He never confessed to liking men, he never stared at Potter’s lips, they never hugged for an eternity, Harry never cried on his shoulder, Draco never worried about him.

Potter leaves, Draco closes the door and then he was never here. This hour didn’t happen. Draco leans his forehead against the wood, eyes closed, breath stuck in his throat together with something rough. Harry Potter was never here. And Draco Malfoy never realised he was falling in love with him.  

~~

Apparating, even when he’s in his right mind, doesn’t seem like the best idea, so he walks.

London isn’t exactly quiet, it’s waking up already after never really falling asleep. The sun has yet to be peek between the buildings as he short-cuts through Soho, but the sky is turning a lighter blue colour, and the buzzing of people rises around him. Laughter fills the air and Harry pushes his hands deeper down his pockets and trudges on towards what he, at the moment, has no better words for than “his apartment.” He switched again just recently, despite therapy working in his favour and it doesn’t feel like _home_ , a home, but not much has done so in ages. He hopes that, with time, someplace―or someone―will finally settle with him and he’ll be right where he belongs.

That still seems so far away. A home. Maybe family. Even just a relationship. To trust again. Being afraid to trust someone doesn’t even begin to compare to the fact that a relationship would mean Harry has to let someone else trust _him,_ though. That’s probably where the real issue lies because, as of now, Harry doesn’t even trust himself. He has hurt, or has been close to hurting, the people he cares about on several occasions in the past, what is to say that he won’t do it again? There’s no way he can trust himself, not even with Malfoy’s positive predicaments of his newly created Paradise. He’s had weeks to build up something he should have had grown for almost twenty-four years; trusting it, and therefore himself, is not something he logically can.

He sighs to himself and hops over some large plastic bags of left out trash, holding his breath in the process. His life could probably fit in one of those, and it’d smell worse. He touches the side of his head and curses. To apparate to Malfoy’s in the middle of the night, and then to stay and allow him to open up? How bloody stupid wasn’t that?

He shouldn't have gone there. Not that he could’ve stopped himself when nightmares had woken him up after he’d passed out on the couch; grim, dark, a bolt of green. When he’d gripped his wand, spun around and worked himself up over the fact that he didn’t know if he was alone or not, he’d spun again on his heel and found himself not breathing on Malfoy’s doorstep. Spliched and surprised he wasn’t outside of the Granger-Weasley household, he still banged the door until Malfoy opened and snarked and Harry suddenly could breathe.

In the end, it is neither a surprise he’d gone there nor something he can make himself fully regret. Draco helped him even when he wasn’t there, his voice is a presence in Harry’s mind that he’s gotten used to in times of panic, but to actually go to him is new. And it had helped a lot. A lot better than expected, and a lot better than any of Harry’s other friends would’ve ever managed. Granted, he doesn’t want Draco to bring it up again, but that doesn’t mean more than that Harry is a selfish coward who managed to get himself _jealous._ Despite the fact that there is absolutely no way he is actually interested in Draco in the first place. Just because he seemed genuinely concerned about Harry’s well-being, physical and psychological, doesn’t mean that he is somehow _Harry’s,_ or that he can’t sleep with his best friend, because earlier unbeknownst to Harry, he’s apparently bloody gay.

With that notion, of course, some things click into place and make sense. Like how he didn’t seem a stranger to Harry’s various male relations, even if Harry had barely noticed in the moments how Draco had just accepted them. The more he thinks about it, the madder he gets, though, because would it have been _so_ difficult for Draco to just tell him that he was gay, when Harry had  gotten so freaked out over him knowing Harry slept with men, too? Knowing that about him would’ve made Harry feel less exposed. A little less alone. He understands that Draco doesn’t have to share shit with him if he doesn’t want to and still, he does, but that, _just_ that… It won’t do him well to dwell on it. Draco’s queer and sleeps with his best friend. Not like that’s any of Harry’s business, anyway.

He’s crossing the bridge by Waterloo when all of a sudden, he realises that he’s standing still. He didn’t notice when he stopped, but he’s leaning on the concrete rails, looking out over Big Ben, London Eye, and Tower Bridge, everything illuminated by the first light of sunrise. He stands for another minute, two, then he loses track but he doesn’t care. For in these moments, Harry feels calmer than he’s felt in years. Like watching this, something simple yet beautiful, and just being able to even remotely appreciate it feels like a huge goddamned deal, especially after this night. The river splashes, sends a faint tangy smell, and someone walks past him and blows out smoke. This is the tourist side of London, and yet, standing a bit away, watching it as a part, rather than _the_ part, gives it new life. Harry takes a deep breath, his feet on the ground, eyes closed, hands cold. At least, he thinks, at least _this,_ London, feels somewhat like home.

The minutes have come and gone when he finally starts walking again, almost smiling. With this peace, he can notice a real difference, change, improvement. He knows in his core, that he’s going to be fine. Draco’s going to help him and they’re going to expand Harry’s Paradise until he can do it on his own. Not that he, if he’s being completely honest, wants to do it on his own. He likes the support, however rude it may sometimes be, and he likes— He likes Draco. Which is strange and somewhat disturbing, but it’s true. There’s a mutual understanding between them, that they’re in Harry’s recovery together. Draco keeps telling Harry things about himself, too, and then it hits Harry. If Draco didn’t want to tell Harry that he’s gay… Was this visit bad enough so that Draco saw it fitting to reveal something so personal? Or is he simply running out of things he doesn’t want Harry to know? Either way, it doesn’t exactly feel comforting.

He’s stranded at his own doorstep because his keys are inside the apartment and the door is locked. The only way to get inside again is to apparate and he doesn’t feel all too comfortable doing that. But he uses Draco’s breathing exercises, _one two three,_ clears his head and envisions his own living room for long minutes before turning on his heel and dropping down inside. No splinch this time, thank god.

When he’s in bed for the first time that night, it’s not even dark out anymore. He hasn’t drawn his blinds so, of course, the sun pokes him in the eye, and sleep refuses to resurface. Staring out the window, he lays breathing, an eternity of counting up and down, and he feels relaxed, tired even, but there are too many thoughts. Of grey eyes, of blond hair, of a soothing voice. He tosses around and stares into the wall. Thinks of his new Paradise. Of touch. A handshake. Cradling hands. It’s of no use, he realises, to even try to ignore it all, it’s going to be impossible. Sleep will, hopefully, be back tonight, but now it’s morning. Now Harry has a full day to think about things he shouldn’t be thinking about. Like a heartbeat against another heartbeat, breath against breath. Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Necxt chapter on saturday!)


	8. Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco deliberately turns away before one of them is supposed to extend their hand for their regular handshake. He fights with the feeling of disappointment, the urge just to have this small, innocent touch, but he quickly reminds himself why he’s no longer allowed even that simple pleasure.

Draco deliberately turns away before one of them is supposed to extend their hand for their regular handshake. He fights with the feeling of disappointment, the urge just to have this small, innocent touch, but he quickly reminds himself why he’s no longer allowed even that simple pleasure. 

Since realising that being around Harry Potter is as bloody complicated as always, fully admitting that his feelings for this man go beyond any he’s ever before felt, and deciding that it is  _ not  _ something he will ever allow himself, it has gone less than forty-eight hours, and here the bastard is again. A pained and bent man that’s just so  _ normal  _ and disgustingly interesting at the same time. He’s got a simple face but Draco wants to stare at it, touch it, he wants to lick it. Of course, Draco has  _ thought  _ about it before, especially when they were younger and then that reason he had for agreeing to this set-up, but he never thought of it like anything else than simple lust and―ugh―attraction. This, however, is too much more. 

Harry looks surprised when they don’t shake hands like maybe he feels deprived as well. It is not a reassuring thought. Any and all feelings Potter might display towards Draco, Draco has realised, would be purely gratuitous; Draco is helping Harry, ergo Harry relies on him, ergo Harry apparating to Draco’s doorstep in the middle of the night just to hear him count to three. Hm. Maybe not “just” that. Nothing’s “just” anything with him. Screw him. (Merlin, no, don’t think about  _ that.)  _

“I want you to show me something traumatizing,” Draco says when they sit.

Harry’s surprised look is immediately exchanged for one of distaste. “I thought we were focusing on positive stuff?” he says. 

“Yes, but I want to see what happens.” 

Harry narrows his eyes. “Are you experimenting on my brain?” 

Like that isn’t what they’ve done for the last couple of months. “I want to see what we have accomplished.” He doesn’t mention Harry’s nightly visit, as agreed, but that doesn’t mean he will completely ignore the fact that Harry came to him, and “without thinking” at that. Draco wants to know what Harry’s newly created Paradise will do with an intrusion of bad memories. 

They’re on the edge of a cliff, the wind blows, it is as unsteady as it is cold, and it’s freezing. Albus Dumbledore stands next to them, and Draco marvels at the sheer amount of shit Harry’s been through. If this is a traumatizing event, and Dumbledore is right there, it must really be bad. Harry doesn’t look terrified, but something tells Draco that it’s only a matter of time. 

The memory _is_ traumatizing. Even to Draco, who isn’t even experiencing it happening for real, who only watches as the two grow more and more anxious until Dumbledore is crying and Harry stands hopelessly beside him, making him drink more. Draco wants to reach out, over and over, wants to make them stop, but the memory keeps going and so do they. Harry’s Occlumency skills have improved, Draco notes, because the memory speeds up at times, floats at others, but generally, he’s allowing Draco to see just what he wants him to see. It’s impressive, even if it’s such a screwed up memory. 

It is by the end that things go… off track. Harry stumbles up against the stone slab, chased, and Draco grabs his arm to hold him steady. He doesn’t understand in the moment  _ why  _ that is such a strange thing. Then the memory grows distant and black. They’re stuck in complete darkness for a moment and Draco’s gut twists. 

When he seeps back into reality, pulling himself back rather slowly, something feels odd. Like reality is altered, like he’s waking up rather than just stepping back into himself. When he opens his eyes, he realises it is because he’s leaning forward in his chair, his arm outstretched and his fingers are digging into the flesh of Potter’s arm. He stares at it. And when he can remove his gaze from his own fingers and look up at Harry, Harry stares at him. It’s a piercing gaze he has, Golden Boy. His spectacles making his eyes slightly larger, draws the focus further towards them. Draco swallows. It’s not awkward. It’s not even a challenge; it just  _ is _ . 

Finally, Draco lets go and leans back again.

“Beg your pardon,” he murmurs and Harry gives him an unreadable look. “That doesn’t usually happen. It’s not… supposed to.” Then his brain kicks into gear again and thinks back on the session. It doesn’t take many seconds before realises that not only did he move in real life without realising it, but he was also an outsider inside of Potter’s mind. Not in the normal way that he went in and took a look around, but he was standing beside Potter, somehow a human form, feeling like a dream version of himself, and he had been looking at Harry. He’d seen his face, his expression; still felt his feelings, but also seen him. Draco frowns. That is not possible. Legilimency isn’t Memories, he’d told Harry as much himself. But here he’d been, looking around with  _ his own _ eyes instead of through Harry’s. It doesn’t make sense. 

But then again. Harry had confessed to thinking about him counting when he was panicking, he’d apparated himself to Draco’s doorstep. This wasn’t exactly too far off, only it was even less of a conscious choice. He had not expected Harry to  _ materialize  _ him in times of distress, but in retrospective maybe it was naïve not to think of the possibility. If Harry’s subconscious went to Draco in times of real distress, why wouldn’t it do the same inside of his head? 

Draco pinches himself. It feels stupid once he stops doing it, but if this is a dream he’d like to wake up now. He stares at Harry again, and Harry is starting to look weary about it.

“Was it bad?” 

Draco opens his mouth to answer but doesn’t know how to. Bad? Not exactly? But completely inappropriate and not how it’s supposed to be, yes, definitely. He thinks about it for a too long time before answering. “I… I stood beside you.” Harry gives him a curious look, cocking his head and then his face goes slack like he realises it, too. “And that’s…” 

“...terrible?” 

Draco makes a face. “It is not exactly normal.” 

Harry shrugs. “Am I ever?” 

_ No _ , Draco thinks, _ no, you’re not.  _ This, now, however, is different. Draco swallows because Harry doesn’t seem to understand the magnificence of this. To him, this is now standard, his mind has already wrapped itself around it, made peace with it. Draco, though, knows in his bones that he’ll never be able to. He’s become a significant part not only in Harry’s recovery but his life. Draco has placed himself there, and Harry has just accepted him. If anything, he is  _ embarrassed  _ about it, but he has acknowledged that former Death Eater Draco Malfoy now has a place  _ within him.  _ Draco feels ill. It doesn’t feel fun or exciting, it doesn’t feel like he’s won or discovered something amazing. It feels like he has thrown a bucket of cold slugs over his head. 

He rises quickly to his feet. “I hate to break this short,” he says, not looking at Harry, “but I’m afraid I’m going to have to.” He steps away, up to his desk, and starts roaming a drawer for the “Potter” file. “I’m really, sorry, Harry”―he winces at himself,  _ don’t bloody say  _ that―”but I need to think about this and go through your file.” 

Harry has come to stand too, on the opposite side of the desk, when Draco looks up. “It’s just you, right?” he asks. 

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not like anyone else could just jump down into my brain like that, like a visitor? Like you just did?”

Draco shakes his head. “No, I’m certain it doesn’t apply to anyone else, no.” 

Harry shrugs again. “Okay, so, do your thinking. I don’t have any problems with it.” 

Draco gives him a long look. Does he not have a problem with that because he knows the only time Draco will be in there is in therapy, or because therapy has forged a false connection and sense of safety between them? In any case, the consensus stands the same: Harry trusts him because Draco made it so. Not because he wants to or chooses to, but because Draco literally imprinted himself into Harry’s unconscious safety net. That’s… fucked up.

“Okay, Potter, now let me think. I’ll see you back here next week.” He picks up Potter’s file and sits down by the desk. Doesn’t extend a hand now either, not despite Harry doing so. He pretends he doesn’t even see it.   

~~

He realises that he’s come to like how the spell plays over Malfoy’s lips as he says it, how it feels like comfort nowadays rather than intrusive because he knows they’re working towards him being  _ fine  _ again. Despite this, Harry has a bad feeling when he leaves Draco’s office. 

He tries hard to shrug it off, to blame it on the Horcrux memory, but it’s of no use. Draco didn't take his own visit onto Harry’s brain with any of the ease Harry feels towards it. Sure, if it had been two months ago, Harry would’ve questioned it, but having Draco poking and lolling around has become more of a normalcy than anything else. This just feels like another  _ layer  _ of this already strange set-up. 

Since the meeting was cut short, Harry goes to his apartment and has more time on his hands than he’s used to. It’s so early still and there’s not really anything he wants to do, so he comes to a standstill in the hallway. The place looks like crap. Harry didn’t even bring a lot of his stuff with him this move either, and yet it is crammed full of things everywhere. He stares at it for an eternity before doing something he hasn’t done in years. 

He cleans.

He digs a cd-player out of his closet space and finds two CDs:  _ The White Stripes _ debut album, and  _ Absolute Music 2002 _ featuring thirty-eight various artists of the radio-friendly pop-genre. Seeing as music is something he never really got into, he picks the cd with the most variety and puts it on, filling the apartment with a grand mixture of vaguely familiar beats. He gets to it like the place looks: chaotic and unorganized. He starts folding socks before he realises he needs to do laundry instead. He does some of the piling dishes only to realise he needs to clean out the cupboards first to be able to put them away. He drags the linen off the bed only to realise the fresh ones are probably located deep down in a pile of moving boxes, and he has to go through all of them to be able to find a clean bed-set. 

At lunch-time, he throws all the stuff out of his armchair and crashes down into it. His limbs hurt. The apartment looks almost worse. It’s disconcerting and he orders in to not have to give himself more dishes. 

Once he sits down with his food, he starts looking at what is actually going on. After working out what order will be the most efficient, he gets back to it, and things go a lot smoother. 

By the end of the evening, he falls down on his bed, and sighs in contentment. The kitchen clean, no dishes, laundry hanging to dry everywhere because he’s cleaned enough space to dare putting it up, he won’t trip on anything while going to the bathroom, and his bed smells of apples. It’s amazing, and Harry smiles to himself, wondering if Draco would be proud of him. The thought of Draco at all makes Harry twist a little. He’s been able not to think about him for the entire day, but now, exhausted, halfway to undressed in just sweats and underwear, and with nothing to do, Draco occupies his mind further than normal.

Maybe it’s stupid to think Draco would be proud for something so simple as Harry making sure he doesn’t live like a pig, but with all that has been going on, even  _ considering _ cleaning is a huge improvement and actually be able to  _ do it _ feels like a massive win. So, Harry hopes that he will be when Harry tells him next week. When everything is back to normal, when Draco has wrapped his head around today’s session, when he shakes Harry’s hand again. He hadn’t done it this morning, neither when Harry arrived nor when he left. It’d been strange because they always do that nowadays. The only form of physical contact they have, if he doesn't count the other night when Draco had held him in his arms and petted his hair for an hour. And Harry had leaned into the touch. 

He doesn’t mean to drag his hand up his thigh and palm himself through his boxers while thinking about Draco’s hands, but he does and then there’s just no stopping it. At first, it’s not really deliberate. He just strokes himself through the fabric and just so happens to think about how it’d be if it was Draco who did it instead. It’s easy, when he slides his eyelids shut, to imagine Draco’s mouth, his hands, his eyes, and to pretend that instead of his own, it’s Draco’s fingers that snake into his underwear and wrap around his cock. He imagines Draco being bossy in bed, knowing what he wants and how to get there. Harry jerks himself off with that in mind after sloppily pushing his underwear out of the way. Deliberate movements and a small snap to his wrist he normally wouldn’t do himself, but when thinking it’s Draco egging him on it’s like it’s his number one turn-to move to get off quickly. 

In no time, he gasps quietly and arches his back, fucking into his own hand and wishing he could have Draco right there, hear him, feel him, kiss him. Fuck him. The thought stutters his breath and he grips the base of his cock not to come yet. His whole groin feels tight and he feels needy, and he whimpers when he starts moving his hand again, not needing much to feel like he’s on the brink once more. He imagines Draco would smirk at him, ask him “Alright there, Potter?” and he groans because that thought shouldn't be as hot as it is. He drags his thumb over his slit, wet with pre-cum, and he straight up, on his own, moans at the feeling. He moves his other hand down his chest, his stomach contracting when he reaches his lower belly. He moves his hand quickly, chasing his own orgasm and massages his balls heavy-handedly. 

It’s with the thought of Draco whispering “come for me, Harry” that Harry does; arching off the bed, spilling hot stripes of cum over his own stomach. 

He settles down, breath catching up and hands still wrapped around himself. He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling, post-orgasm bliss making him grin. 

Although, it doesn’t take long before the grin fades. The cum cools, his strung-out body feels the exhaustion even worse, he remembers that he’s going to have to look Draco in the eye again in a week and try not to think about this. He’s stupid. This wasn’t even  _ with  _ Draco, but the act changes everything for Harry. Not only because it's true acknowledgment of feelings he has, but also the fact that it is feelings  _ at all.  _ He doesn’t just want Draco when they’re about to fuck because they never  _ have;  _ he wants him when he’s not even there. Wants him soft and hard and in all ways imaginable. 

On one hand, it’s progress that he has a crush. He’s not been able to develop anything like it for years, not even in the first years after Voldemort (even though he full-heartedly tried, especially with Oliver) and now he just has. Without trying to. Because he has tried hard with his Paradise to strive for recovery, but sex and love—or anything resembling it—has not been on his mind. And yet here he is with a scolding hot plate of Draco-fever.

On the other hand, it seems Draco already has his hands occupied with Zabini. Best friends with benefits, Draco had said, but Harry has seen enough romantic dramas to know that it’s only a matter of time before people like that really fall in love. 

Harry raises his head slightly and looks down at his stomach. It’s not just his mind that is sticky with the thought of Draco and he goes to clean up, hoping maybe a shower will rinse the image of him out of his mind. He thinks that, maybe, because Harry’s Paradise is what it is, that he’ll forget all about him, lose interest until next week and that he won’t have to worry about it anymore. It wouldn’t even be a stretch to ask that of his brain.  

The more he thinks about him, the more he wants to keep thinking about him. What he hadn’t added to the calculation is that his new Paradise is only growing stronger, which means it feeds off positive reinforcement like it is a child let loose in a candy store. Every time he thinks of Draco and his chest tightens slightly with a quiet longing, he can practically  _ feel _ his mind expands. He likes the feeling. It’s almost addicting. Quickly, he realises that he thinks about Draco a lot. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter on monday!


	9. Space

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You've built me into your Paradise, Potter."  
> Harry looks at him like it's not explanation enough. "So?"  
> Draco stares at him. " _So?_ I'm not supposed to be there. And you're not supposed to _want_ me there."

It’s decided. Draco has gone batshit crazy and fallen in love with Harry Potter. That means, with the situation looking like it does, that Draco is too close to his own case. Most probably, he has been too close from the beginning, when he started offering things about himself. Even if he’d never use the exact word “close” to speak about it, but now it’s inevitable.

He lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling and the only thing he hears is his own breathing and the sheets rustling quietly. It’s no use to check what time it is again; it’s late, or maybe it’s early, but he hasn’t slept and he doesn’t see himself doing it anytime soon anyway. His head just keeps filling up with thoughts of _Harry Harry Harry,_ most of them bringing wave after wave of anxiety. Despite knowing about half a million breathing techniques and exercises to clear one’s mind, it’s like everything has evaporated and instead, Harry just keeps intruding. Draco’s lying down, yet he feels dizzy like the world is moving.

Draco can no longer treat him. That’s the consensus. It’s not only unethical and morally wrong—which Draco cares for rather little, if he’s being perfectly honest—but it’s also going to be a terrible shitshow for Draco’s part if he’ll be around him like this. He might not treat him how he should because of these _feelings._ He might actually make it worse. Knowing he’s inside of Harry’s head, Draco’s pretty sure that he _is_ treating him wrongfully.

When sleep has yet to arrive at four am, Draco decides it’s not worth it. He gets up, showers and has breakfast before apparating to work. He paces his quiet office, not even bothering to turn on the lights. He should send Potter an owl. Cancel their meeting. All meetings going forward.

He doesn’t. No owl, no cancellation. Draco only sits down.

He reorganizes Potter’s folder four times. Every note and scribble, and it’s incredibly entertaining when he doesn’t want to think about other things. But in the file, he can also find the progress. Question marks from before that are now answered, rude remarks on Harry’s inability to perform Occlumency and the knowledge of what he is capable of now. By the fifth time, he stops reading, and that's when Harry saunters in for his appointment. If Draco had looked up, he would’ve seen a faint blush on Harry’s face, but now he only stares down into his papers and barely acknowledges that he’s there.

“I’m giving you a referral, Potter.” He still doesn’t look up from his paper, he just says the words and writes something down. He doesn’t even think it’s a word, and if it is one, Draco doesn’t know it.

“What?”

Draco glances up, face carefully neutral. Harry’s looks smoothed out, surprised. Draco wants to run his fingers over his skin. “A referral,” he says instead, “I’m giving you one.”

“Why would you do that?” Harry scrunches up his face in frustration. “I have my first _real, scheduled_ appointment next week, and still we’re already making huge progress!” He throws a hand out. “We’re… I’m… I’m getting _better.”_

He’s right. They’ve come a long way; _Harry_ has come a long way. He’s in no way cured or stable, but he has a solid ground to stand on. It should be enough for someone else to keep up the work with him. At least, Draco hopes so. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, and it physically hurts to do so. “I can no longer treat you.”

Harry puts a hand down on the desk, drawing Draco’s attention back to him. “What did I do? Because whatever it is, I’ll stop. I’ll never do it again. Draco, please.”

“That,” Draco says and points a finger in his face, “right there. Saying my name, calling me ‘Draco’, throwing the word ‘please’ like it’s a prayer just for me.” He holds up as Harry stares at him, wide-eyed. Now it’s put into words what they have silently agreed not to speak of. Draco furiously keeps going when his ears have shifted into a dark shade of pink. “You’ve built me into your Paradise, Potter.”

Harry looks at him like it’s not explanation enough. “So?”

Draco stares at him. “‘ _So?’_ I’m not supposed to be there. And you’re not supposed to _want_ me there.”

But he doesn’t listen. “I don’t care,” he says. “You’re helping me and I’m going in the right direction, so I don’t care what my stupid brain decides to do with that. If you’re there, fine; if you're not, fine, but I need us to continue. I can’t have anyone else poking around, I can’t… do this again. I don’t want to. And if that means I’m working you into my own head, then so be it.”

Draco stands up. “You had Voldemort stuck in your mind, embarking on the space in your Paradise, for seventeen years before losing it to him, and you’re telling me you’re _fine_ with me being worked into the very core of your _new_ Paradise?” He bores his gaze into Harry’s, making sure that every word pierces into his skull because he’s being more serious than ever. “Do you even understand what that means, Harry? Because I don’t. We don’t know what will happen. What if this connection I’ve created between us rips if I die? And you lose another Paradise? Huh? Have you even thought about _anything_ that could go wrong with this? You need someone else to poke around and push me out, you need to actively choose something or someone else to _focus_ on because I cannot be in your bloody head.” Draco should’ve realised that just because he’s good at arguments, doesn’t mean that Harry will just fold. Harry, after all, is an intelligent lad.

“Voldemort got into my head by cruel accident,” Harry says soberly. “You’re there because of a… a _healing_ accident.” He steps up even closer, shortening the space between them and Draco finds it a bold move but he doesn’t acknowledge it. “You haven’t stolen a place in my mind,” Harry continues like it’s the truth, “I have actively—although unconsciously—made space for you. I came here looking for help and you’ve helped me better than anyone ever could’ve. I’m choosing to keep you there, regardless of consequence.”

Draco pulls his lip up into a curling snarl. “What about me? Don’t I get a say?”

Harry crosses his arms and leans back a fraction. “Do you have any arguments other than the uncertainty of the situation?” he asks because he’s a little shit.

“I don’t _need_ arguments, Potter, I simply _don’t want to.”_ But it does sound weak even to his own ears. Of course, with Draco’s clientele and waitlist, he can afford to let Harry’s case go. So far, they have only worked on top of Draco's usual schedule so it’s not even like he can even bump in someone else in need of his services.

“But why? What do you have to lose? If anyone, I’m the one risking something here.”

 _That our connection is nothing but a fabrication of your mind and that it’s not real. That one of us eventually makes a move and the other will reciprocate. That you’ll want me because your Paradise associates me with good things, not because I’m someone good. That everything you feel for me is a lie, and you don’t even know it yourself._ “My word is final, Potter.”

“I will literally start crying if you're serious and I know you hate it when I cry.”

Draco holds up. “Are you quite serious?” Weirdly enough, he _looks_ serious.

“I am very serious. Are you?”

“I…”

He holds a hand out and it comes into Draco’s personal space, but Harry doesn’t touch him. Draco desperately wants him to. Harry says, “Please,” again. He looks small, vulnerable. “I need this. And you _know_ I need it with you.”

Draco shouldn’t. It’s all wrong. He had decided not to do this, he should listen to himself and not to Potter. He should. Really should. “I hate you, Potter.”

“I’m sure you do. Could we, please, get on with it now?”

~~

When Harry sits, he feels like this space is no longer his. Draco is scowling, eyebrows draw tight and mouth even tighter and he doesn’t seem to want to agree even if he obviously does so anyway. “Thank you,” Harry says and that doesn’t help in the slightest. Honestly, it makes it worse. Draco's hands are fists when he takes his usual place in front of Harry. For another second, Harry feels like maybe he should leave. Then, as if it wasn't clear just by the way Draco budged, he realises that Draco with ease could've made him leave. It might not be the best setting to have therapy, but it's infinitely better than trying with someone else anyway. Harry just wants Draco (in more than just the one way.)

They breathe for a record-breaking _five_ minutes. Harry sneaks a peek at Draco after just a couple because he's breathing deeper and faster than Harry has ever heard before. It's also Draco who's the one that is too impatient to do it for longer than that. Harry feels calm, but Draco doesn't even ask if he feels ready. “Focus away from me,” he only says when he raises his wand. “Focus on anything you want, but _not_ me.”

Knowing that's not gonna happen, Harry agrees.

At first, Harry doesn’t notice any difference when they’re inside his head. It’s not like he suddenly sees Draco within every memory or emotion or dream or fantasy, so it’s not the same type of extreme difference as Draco is getting. But as they rummage through memories and Harry focuses in on the good ones, when he laughs and smiles and thinks he can now pick out to remember as fond, he sort of feels different. Not with the memories, but in himself. Draco is always a presence during this, but he realises with baffled amazement that what usually feels like an intrusion, now feels like Harry inviting him in and showing him around. Even if he’s not there, per se, he’s still _there._  Last time, Harry hadn’t reflected on the fact. Maybe it has developed over time because he can’t remember if Draco’s Legilimency has felt inherently bad in a while.

It makes sense that Draco fears this. That something that is so—to Harry at least—unquestionably pure and good, to him must feel like it has some sort of strings attached to it. What if Harry's mind collapsed if Draco died? Well, he better make sure not to bloody die then. Harry isn’t going to let go of him. Even now, when trying to focus on memories and not even seeing him, Harry can't seem to get him out of his mind. Then again, he's quite literally inside of Harry's mind so maybe that's not a shocker. It's going to be impossible to focus away enough to not have Draco as his main focus. It just is.

Draco goes out for a second and breathes. Harry cocks his head and looks at him. It's the first time that Draco has ever had to consciously collect himself when Harry has not had the same need. Not that Harry complains; he takes the opportunity to ogle Draco instead. With his fingers weaved together in his lap, Draco looks almost like he's praying. Harry hasn't seen anyone praying since Petunia brought him to Sunday Church once to try and pray the evil out of him. Harry had been six and he hadn't understood what you were supposed to do. He'd also drawn too many looks to the Dursley's, and it clearly hadn't helped to pray for him, so Petunia had decided to never bring him again. Not that she went to church all that often anyway.

Draco probably prays the evil out of Harry, too. Not like Petunia, of course, but he surely wants Harry to disappear out of his life. Although, his heart isn't truly in it. If it were, Harry wouldn't still be here, and Draco would've forced him away. Harry looks at his face, clean-shaven and dashed with heavy perfume that reaches Harry's nostrils even from here. He knows from experience that perfume does not taste nice, even when licked off of skin, but it doesn't stop him from craving to get his tongue on Draco's neck. It's probably an inappropriate thought, especially since Draco is going to go into his mind again any second, but Harry just wants to launch himself into Draco's personal space, invade it like ants on a piece of sugar, and devour him. He cares nothing about what’s appropriate. Then Draco opens his eyes again and their gazes meet. Harry has to use all self-control he has not to move.

"What?" Draco asks.

Harry just shakes his head. "Another round?" he asks instead.

Draco looks like he might need another hour to clear his mind, but he sneers and raises his wand again.

Despite the clear hostility from Draco's part, they go through their session easily enough. Harry really has improved his Occlumency abilities and they manage to stay long on each passing memory. He's even gotten good enough that he can stay in _emotions_ for a few seconds, and that's so much more difficult. Draco reluctantly compliments him for being so in tune with himself after stepping out the last time. Harry is sure Draco would've much rather known that Harry managed it himself rather than Draco teaching him with all that it encompasses, but he also knows that Draco must take pride in the matter. If there is something positive coming out of this, it must be that Draco has managed to _fix_ Harry when no one else could. Once he has gotten over himself, Draco will surely gloat.

As Draco finishes their session quickly and excuses himself back to his desk, Harry sits back on the couch and grins. He has come a long way to be able to smile at the fact that Draco will in the future be pleased with himself. Especially when it will be at Harry's expense. It probably should be as weird as Draco makes it out to be, but it isn't.

He gets up, taking his time even if he can practically feel Draco's uncomfortableness increasing exponentially with every passing second. "Are we good?" Harry asks as he shrugs on his robes.

Draco looks up like the question instead was an insult. "We're nothing."

That was a bit of an understatement. Harry's pretty sure they are a lot of things. "Surely, even you must realise that's not really the case." Draco's throat bobs as he swallows and he doesn't have to respond to Harry to know his answer. "I'll see you next week, then?"

"Tell Astoria to make sure the new appointment is set."

Harry nods and sees himself out. He's not discouraged about Draco's tone or way of seeing things. He'll see reason. He'll see Harry. They'll... get to the other end of the bridge at some point. After everything acknowledged between them, it's inevitable. It must be.

Astoria quickly makes sure everything is set for next week and Harry leaves the establishment feeling very happy he'll never have to see it before the sun is up ever again. He now has an actual space in Draco's calendar, a standing appointment that lies within reason and he's already come such a long way from where he was three months ago. With Draco's help, Harry's fairly certain that his life will be his to do what he pleases with, and that's a thought that finally settles in the pit of his stomach like Harry has made a little nest for it there. It's good. It's very good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second to last chapter on wednesday, conclusion on saturday!


	10. Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That,” he says and points to Harry’s head, “never happened.” Because fuck if he’s screwed Potter and forgotten about it. No way.  
> “It was a dream,” Harry provides.

They switch to Wednesdays at nine o’clock. Even if Draco keeps insisting that Harry should change healers, everything goes smoothly enough for a couple weeks. That is until Harry is faced with some serious issues during their session and his Paradise is put to the test.

It doesn’t seem intentional, but all of a sudden they’re flashing through memory after memory of people dying. Sirius Black disappearing into a veil as dark as his name. Harry cradling the corpse of Dobby in his arms. Ron and his family crying on the floor of the Great Hall. Cedric Diggory in a graveyard.

A woman screaming and a flash of green.

For the first time ever, Harry forcibly removes Draco from his mind by only using Occlumency. It’s sudden and aggressive, and Draco feels like he’s thrown into his chair. It’s disorienting to open his eyes, more so when Harry isn’t sitting in his place but instead stands off to the side, eyes pressed closed, body shaking, hyperventilating.

Draco doesn’t think; he just stands and puts his fingertips on Potter’s bare arm. He says, “ _Count,_ ” followed by a series of one-two-threes. For every number, he taps the tip of his finger to Potter’s skin. _Finally,_ he starts to breathe like he should.

They stand like that for a minute, two, ten breaths, twenty. It’s dangerous because he’s so close and yet he’s too far away, and Draco can’t seem to trust himself around him anymore. When he tries to remove his hand again because it’s getting too much, suddenly Harry’s hand is clasped over his, holding his hand firmly in place.

“Please,” he says and it’s almost enough to make Draco step forward, press himself to Harry’s back and see what happens when he kisses Harry’s neck. But he doesn’t. He keeps counting Harry’s breaths until they’re back to normal, but can barely keep his own in order.

“Hey.” Harry turns, and what before felt like too long a distance, now feels too short of one because Draco can count the freckles on Harry’s nose and the lines beside his eyes and the eyelashes on his eyelids. In his dreams, he’s been in this situation a number of times but never for real. “ _You_ breathe,” comes a quiet reminder.

Draco can’t. He has completely stopped. The shy of a smile plays over Harry’s lips as he slowly reaches up. At first, Draco doesn’t understand what he’s doing, why he’s being so close and why he leans in closer, because it doesn’t make sense, but then Harry fits his mouth to Draco’s; calm and tentative and the world explodes. He whispers the word once more— _”breathe”—_ and leans in again. The sweet kiss turns desperate in a heartbeat because, yes, now Draco can breathe, but he does so like he hasn’t gotten enough air for hours. The air rushes out of his nose and yet each breath is shallow and he presses his lips so hard to Harry’s he thinks he might push him over. But Harry only responds with the same, with pressure and with tongue and Draco is too caught up in trying to have everything that he doesn’t immediately pull away from the situation. The only thought in his mind is how wonderful it feels when Harry bites his lip and the taste of his mouth and how breathing is a second-ranked activity where _keep kissing_ is first.

Once Draco realises what the bloody hell is going on, he stumbles backwards, away from Harry and his devilish mouth and he gasps, “What on _earth_ made you do _that_?”

“Gryffindor courage,” Harry answers with a shrug, no joke, and Draco wonders—not for the first time—why he must fancy _this_ man of all people in the world.

“Well… You shouldn’t do it again.”

Harry doesn’t. That doesn’t mean that Draco can’t see the want to do it plastered across his face. Draco makes sure to get back into the session as soon as possible even if being inside of Harry’s head doesn’t feel like the safest place to be right now.

He has seen himself through other’s eyes and he never particularly enjoys it. It is weird, not only because of the obvious reason that it’s barely ever in a good light, but also because he feels like that person is not himself. It's usually memories of his younger self, and Draco has grown up. He’s not that bratty little boy anymore and it’s strange to see himself preserved as such.

He’s gotten unusually little of himself from Harry, just the odd flash here and there, but it seems today Harry is willing to share something radically different.

After the mess of emotions stirred up by traumatic events and kissing Draco, why Harry thought it a good idea to show him _this_ is beyond Draco’s imagination. Especially because Draco is trying to get him to _not_ focus on Draco at all.

The sight is somewhat disturbing because it is one of himself, but for the first time it is one of himself that he doesn’t know of, that doesn’t make sense. Lying on a bed, on his stomach, with a sheet barely covering his _naked_ body from the waist down, he looks at Harry over his shoulder and in a voice he has _definitely_ never used towards him, he nonchalantly says, “You’re wearing too much clothes, baby.”

Draco is moving before he’s even fully outside of Harry’s head, pacing the room before Harry has opened his eyes.

“That,” he says and points to Harry’s head, “never happened.” Because _fuck_ if he’s screwed Potter and _forgotten_ about it. No way.

Shaking his head, Harry says, “To you: no.” Draco only stops dead in his tracks and stares into the distance. There are a few possible scenarios, but he understands quickly that it’s either a dream or a fantasy. Either it’s a subconscious choice of Harry’s brain to undress him, put him in a bed and make him practically plead Harry to get naked too, or it’s a conscious one. Harry might've conjured the image himself, might’ve wanted this.

“It was a dream,” Harry provides, and Draco breathes in sharply. Not a conscious choice, then. Even if it doesn’t matter much, it feels worse than if it’s been a fantasy. It’s just Harry’s Paradise that wants him like that. It’s just Harry’s Paradise that keeps focusing on Draco, again and again.

“I can’t see…” he starts but he has to stop to swallow. “I can’t see things like that. I won’t— I... “

Harry stands up carefully, then. Almost shrugging, he asks, “You want it to be real?”

Draco points at him. “Don’t ask me that, Harry.”

Harry looks back at him, ignoring the finger. “I love it when you say my name,” he says. Like that's something he normally says to his Healer, to a former Death Eater, to _Draco_.

Draco feels his stomach churn, his fingers shake, and he lets his arms hang heavily. “Please,” he says.

“Draco.”

And all Draco can say is “ _please_ ” again because he has no defenses for this; he does not know how to deny himself a Harry that so openly wants him, however fake it is.

“ _Draco,_ ” Harry repeats and it’s almost mocking to the tone, but there is a hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth and Draco wants to kiss him until he’s smiling for real, wants to touch him until he’s moaning, wants to make him feel so bloody good that he’ll never dream of anything or anyone but Draco.

His lips tingle with a phantom feeling of Harry’s lips against his and then he mumbles, “I love it when you say mine, too.” He stalks up and with arms that have practically gone numb he captures Harry’s neck and he kisses him. Long and hard and he hurts inside because he’s made Harry want him, and he has to remind himself that he can’t actually have this.

Pushing Harry backwards with his body, Draco manages to get him to sit down again and Draco follows, straddling Harry’s lap in the process. It is as close to perfect he can be in this situation: from the way he can feel Harry’s hardening in his pants, to the breaths on his lips, from Harry’s hands messing up his hair to the small noises of pleasure everything combined drags from Draco’s throat.  

“I don't want—” Draco says but he doesn’t know what he doesn't want because Harry’s fingers sliding over his skin is something he’d give up everything to have continue.

“You don’t have to,” Harry airily replies and even though Draco’s not really sure what they’ve agreed upon, it feels infinitely better once they have. “Whatever you want.” It’s like Harry finally understands that Draco can’t actually do this. Like he understands that this is an exception, that they will only have whatever this is right here, right now, and never again. It’s like he tells Draco that that’s okay. So Draco relaxes. The desperation falls away and left is Draco with kisses that leave him wanting to have more and more.

“This is probably the most unprofessional thing I’ve ever done,” Draco says and darts his tongue over Harry’s once more.

Harry shrugs. “I mean, buttfuck innuendo is also pretty out there.”

Draco snorts in surprise. “That’s rude, Potter.”

“Hey, you were the one who said it!”

“Shut up,” Draco says and shuts him up with his mouth.

For a second, it’s an attainable fantasy. Draco can have just about anything right now. He's certain Harry would give him the world if he could and Draco asked. It doesn't make it easier to know that it'll be over soon, but it does make him appreciate it more. From the way he touches Harry's face to the feeling of his stubble under his fingertips and Harry's breath on Draco's cheek, from the sound Harry emits from deep down his throat when Draco sucks at his neck to the way Harry seems to lean into every touch like it's something to cherish. Draco loses himself in Harry Potter for a few minutes.

"I don't want to stop," Draco says against Harry's throat.

"So don't."

"But this—”

"Don't think about it. Just let it be. For now?"

"For now," Draco agrees. He swallows and licks his lips. "Do you ever fantasise about me?"

Harry laughs and grips him tighter. "An increasing amount, really. I even do it when we're in the same room."

"Merlin, Potter." But the statements makes something untangle in Draco's gut. Because at least that's a very conscious choice. Something Harry wants not just deep inside his mind, but also when the reality is right in front of him. It's better. It means that Harry is choosing him, at least a little. Maybe for everything else, he's blinded by his own mind and Draco's intrusion in it, to see Draco in a different light, but for this, he's slightly more clear-sighted.

Harry doesn't let him ponder for all too long before he drags Draco back to reality by nibbling at his lower lip. Draco returns the favour quickly and Harry laughs. It's sweet and rumbling and it would've made Draco go crazy if the situation wasn't already so incredibly absurd he would never find anything shocking ever again. He tries to find some sort of professionalism in him and step away from the situation, but the more Harry's fingers touch his skin, the less likely does he feel like he's going to give this up in the next coming _hours._

"Never in a million dreams would I have seen this coming," Draco says. He hadn't exactly meant to say it out loud, but the way Harry's lips quirk into a smile makes it all worth it.

"Really?" he asks. "You never dreamed of yourself making out with me on this very couch? Because it's been a frequent circumstance in mine." Draco rolls his eyes and pushes down to kiss him again. He might be stupid, but at least he's kissing like he's never done anything else in his entire life. “Do I ever steal your dreams?” Harry whispers against his lips.

 _You steal my everything,_ Draco wants to say but he doesn't want to burst the bubble just yet, doesn't want to make it clear just how much more he craves, so he keeps quiet. Draco doesn't have a Paradise large enough to deal with this, with Harry, and with loving him. It’s more joy than ever, combined with a desperate attempt not to relish in it, and his Paradise _wants_ it badly even if Draco knows he can’t have it. Not for long. Not after today, and certainly not for long enough. He pushes it away. If he only has now and however long he can manage to grasp, he's going to fully enjoy it. He's going to make every goddamned second of every minute count. Without thinking too hard, Draco slides his arms around Harry's neck and hugs him. A real, tight squeeze hug that does not bear a single trace of sexual intention and yet it is the most intimate thing Draco has ever experienced when Harry wraps his arms tightly around him and hugs him back.

~~

“Yes,” Draco says when he pulls back, “yes, you steal my dreams.” It makes Harry’s stomach flutter worse than it already is with Draco cooped up in his lap. “But more often when I’m awake than when I am asleep.”

He pulls back to look at him. It's crazy to see him so close, to feel the warmth of him, feel his breath against his cheek. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“That I think of the future and you, and I wish they could be intertwined.” Draco looks down at his chest and Harry takes his hand and intertwines their fingers.

“They can be, you know.”

Draco sighs. “Harry, can we please not have this discussion?”

“Because you've already made up your mind?”

“This is about _your_ mind.”

Harry sits back. “Right. But I don’t get to have a say.”

“You’re biased.”

Harry wants to laugh. “That’s the worst of your arguments so far, like you aren’t biased to self-sabotage?”

Draco looks a bit taken aback. “I…”

Harry brushes a thumb over the top of Draco’s hand and leans in again to let the tips of their noses connect. “You want me. I want you. It’s not rocket science.”

“I have no idea what that means, but it’s more complicated. You know it is.”

“What is so complicated? That you have been such a positive force in my life that I have not been able to stop thinking about you?”

Draco scoffs. “I’m _not_ a positive force.”

“I think my head begs to differ.” Harry begs to differ a lot. If it hadn’t been for Draco, Harry would've been stuck in a continuous vicious cycle, with no Paradise, a miserable life, and no way of getting out of it. If a positive force hadn’t change that, Harry literally can’t say what had.

“I’ve just helped.”

“You ‘just’ helped,” Harry says.

“Yes.”

“So, the things you shared about your life was all bullshit? This ‘give and take-relationship,’ just bullshit?”

Draco chokes. “It’s not a _relationship_ —”

“Draco. You know what I mean.” He simply _must_ know what Harry means.

But of course, Draco doesn't give up that easily. He leans back a little and throws a hand out. “It was egoistic. To take your case, it was a completely egoistic choice from beginning to end and I—”

Harry interrupts, a hand on Draco’s chest. “Pretend I haven’t built you into my Paradise.”

“It’s not—”

“Humour me. And let’s look at some facts.”

Draco closes his eyes for a second. “Fine.”

Harry nods. “We know each other intimately. Not only did we grow up together and know generally what we’ve been through, but you have told me about your worst. I've shown you mine. You’re a very attractive bloke. That, I have known since about fifth year, so that’s not new. You make me feel safe. I didn’t feel safe anywhere before and you started off not really doing it either, but somewhere along the line, even before we started all the focusing, you had an unwavering want to help me and that made me feel safe on its own. I pretend you’re there with me when I panic. Just imagining your voice calms me down. You’re witty, intelligent, hard-working. You’re a git and annoying and sometimes I want to claw my eyes out because you’re so stubborn. But you’re smart, Draco. Please don’t throw this away because you’re scared.”

For a long minute, Draco only looks at him. Like he's trying to work out his own problems with this situation in the short minutes it seems he's giving them. Harry dreads that he'll give it up too soon, that they won't even be able to have it just for a short while even. It doesn't seem like Draco's too prone to give this a go in any other way. But he hopes. God, he hopes. For a chance, for them to try this out. He's got one hand in Draco's hair and one wrapped around his waist and despite the fact that he indeed would very much like to make this sexual and fuck him on the couch, he also just wants this. To be close to him. He wants to say it wouldn't matter if Draco really decided on no, but he can't. He'll be craving this again and, of course, he will honour Draco's decision, but it'll be a bitch to stay away. Especially knowing Draco wants him, too.  
  
Finally, Draco takes a deep breath. "I'm not scared," he says. "I'm not... scared." But he looks terrified. “Voldemort is about to kill a lot of people”-sort of terrified.

"It's just me," Harry assures him. "Just me."  
  
"That doesn't make anything _easier_ , Potter." He’s quiet for another minute, sitting completely still and just breathes, and Harry lets him take his time.

With a little shake of his head, Draco moves a little before he stands. Harry's heart has time to sink before Draco gives him a short kiss, his face looking almost playful when he pulls away and backs to the door.  
  
"What are you—"  
  
Draco puts a finger to his mouth and shushes him. He fixes his hair slightly and opens the door. Poking his head out he says, “Astoria, would you be a darling and cancel my afternoon appointment, me and… Potter have had a break-through and we need to work on that.”

Harry can hear from out the hall, “Of course, are we rescheduling or just passing it up?”

“See what you can do? Thank you.” He comes back inside, closing the door and thus leaving the rest of the day open for Harry. It's an incredibly intoxicating feeling.

Smiling, Harry says, “A break-through, huh?”

“I’m in love with you.”

That was not what Harry had expected. He stares at Draco, wanting to tell him the exact same thing, but he only swallows and doesn’t respond because Draco doesn’t look like he wants Harry to speak at all.

“I want to give you everything I can, anything you'll take of me. It's probably not even _healthy_ how much I want that. And I don't know how we would ever work. We're so different. I mean, you're _you_ and I'm _me_. Maybe it's better if you erase me from your mind and if I don't try to kid myself and just let it... go. But I”—he takes a breath—”don’t want any of that.”

Harry stands. “I can’t erase you because without you I wouldn't be me,” he says. “You gave me back stability, and yes, I am grateful, but that’s just a part of it. And even if you wouldn't be so literally written into my Paradise, you still would've been because you were there for me. Are there for me. And this, this is where things go beyond your arguments because I want to be there for _you._ ” He moves towards him. “You want to give me everything? Well, guess what? I’ll give _you_ anything you want, too. This is mutual. I want _us_ to have it all.”

Harry holds his gaze, coming to a halt in front of Draco and Draco stares at him. For a long time again. Then, his face breaks out in a smile. “Merlin’s life, we’re so _dramatic_ ,” he says.

Harry laughs. He laughs and laughs and Draco joins him, shoving at Harry’s shoulder, and it’s the most perfect thing ever.

Draco keeps smiling when he stops laughing, and it’s amazing, wonderful, Harry wants him to never stop. His voice is low but full of mirth when he speaks again. “You’re taking me on a date, Potter.”

“It’ll be my pleasure, Malfoy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last!! Chapter!! On!! Saturday!!


	11. Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco falters. He’s been so busy trying to figure out how everyone would feel about the fact that he is dating Harry because he is Harry Potter that he’d totally forgotten that there might be a ruckus just because they’re both blokes. “Crap.”  
> Harry leans over and takes his hand, pressing it reassuringly. “So, you haven’t?”  
> “I never thought it a good time. And I haven't been dating, especially not someone I’d like to go public with.” Harry smiles at that, a lowkey thing that makes Draco think he’s the worst sap ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dudes. It's the end, the final chapter, the epliogue. Can u believe? I can't. This fic has loomed over me for over two years (when i finished nano (AND A HELLZ YAS TO ME FOR DOING THAT) an hour ago, I found that i had announced Stolen last year (after over a year in the making)) and now I am leavinf it into your capable hands. 
> 
> I want to thank everyone who has read and commented through the upload, you are literal angels (michael, nan: your support is ever so appriciated) and I hope you all find your way back to my stuff in the furture. A vig shout to bri as well for morally supporting me through the last stages, you are amazing.
> 
> I am a little early, technically it's not saturday yet, but I just can't wait. Alas: enjoy.

He tells himself that he’s not nervous. It would’ve maybe been believable if he hadn’t changed his outfit four times and run around his apartment for the last hour and a half while getting ready. 

On Wednesday, they’d gone out for lunch in Muggle London and then wandered around for a couple hours, finding themselves sitting close together on a bench in Hyde Park. It had been easy. They had just fallen into it: talking, kissing, holding hands, everything. 

Now, it’s Friday and they’ve  _ decided  _ they’re going out. To dinner. Together. And it’s not as easy. Draco feels like the stakes are higher, that it’s for real now, and that there’s just no way they’re both going to make it out alive. They weren’t meant to be  _ dating _ . They fought a war on different sides, for Merlin’s sake. And what will everyone say? How much shit is Harry going to get because he’s even  _ seen  _ with Draco? How long will he think that it’s all worth it? Several times, he talks himself out of going, but every time he does, he manages to talk himself back into it. Harry wants this. Obviously. And Draco does want it too. He wants it so bad he can barely breathe when thinking about the fact that he's actually getting it. 

He's interrupted (when he has just talked himself into canceling) by the doorbell ringing. This is it, he thinks, this is when he tells Harry that they're not doing it. He stalks off to the door and then he can't open it. He wants the illusion for a bit more, know that he could have this, just for a tiny bit longer. Shaking himself, muttering that he needs to grow up, he plunges the door open. 

How he ever could say no to Harry is a wonder. Seeing him standing there on the porch, looking confident yet nervous, Draco can't find the words to make him leave. 

“Hi,” Harry says.

Draco swallows and  _ smiles.  _ “Hi.” 

“You look great.”

Draco shrugs a little. “I wanted to look fancy.”

Harry nods. “That’s also an adjective I’d use.” A little self-consciously, Harry looks down at his own clothes. “I don’t have much―”

“You look absolutely  _ fine _ , Harry.” And he does. His rugged jeans are replaced by a pair of black slacks, he wears a cool gray button up and plain dress robes. He cleans up well. Draco feels almost a little special just because Harry even considered dressing up at all. 

They apparate to a quiet street somewhere Draco does not recognize himself. It’s probably London, but Harry smirks and makes a deal out of not telling him. “It’s an adventure,” he says and drags Draco off by the hand. 

“You’re going to kill me prematurely, you know that, right?”

The restaurant Harry has chosen is obviously Wizard run, they both are dressed for it, and for the first ten seconds, that scares Draco more than anything. However, as they enter, one of the waitresses, a girl in a headscarf, a few years younger than them, spots them and comes over. 

“Harry,” she says, smiling and Harry smiles wide back. 

“Amina,” he says, “good to see you.” 

Draco hears the thick arabic accent when she replies. “And I see we’re not alone today?” She gives Harry a curious look and it dawns on Draco that this place must be run by foreigners, people who must’ve come here in the past couple years, that might know who he is but clearly have no emotional connections to events either Harry nor Draco has been a part of. It’s… unusual. Draco likes it. Harry introduces him and Amina greets him with the same kind of warmth she did Harry. Draco feels more like a part of society than he has for a long time. 

Amina seats them and gives them menus. The places is dimly lit and doesn’t seem to be the kind of places that seats a lot of people, it’s rather small really, and Draco wonders if maybe you have to get a reservation to be seated. There are a couple more people dining, but none of them pay any attention to Draco or Harry. 

“Thought maybe we wanted to ease into things.” Harry looks at him over the top of his menu. “I know you’re not exactly out and I’m very much not. Thought it best I could tell my friends before they read it in the morning paper.”

“I’m out to the selected few, but clever thinking, Potter.” They share a look and Draco smirks. They haven't even ordered, but he feels comfortable. A little fluttering, but him and Harry knows how to talk. It feels natural. They discuss the different things on the menu, dishes from all over the world and settle quickly. Amina takes their orders and comes with drinks a minute later. 

Harry sips his, looking like he’s choosing his words. “Your dad…” he starts but doesn't continue. 

Draco has wondered when this conversation was going to happen, and he’s prepared for it. “...was a Death Eater and I was too. I know. It’s allowed to talk about it.” 

For some reason, Harry looks surprised at this. “Oh, no,” he says, shaking his head. “I was going to ask whether or not he’s… you know… okay with you?” When Draco doesn’t answer—because he was not expecting this—Harry adds, “Because you do see him, yes?” 

Not knowing what Harry’s getting at, Draco nods. “I see him. Occasionally. We’re both busy people.” Draco works; Lucius Malfoy repents. 

“So, have you told him?” 

_ This is our first date _ , Draco thinks, frowning. “About  _ you _ ?” 

Harry shakes his head. “No, I mean about you.” 

“What about me?” The conversation is steering in on a dangerously weird path and Draco doesn’t know how to get it back to normal.

Then Harry clarifies. “That you’re gay?” he says, a little shrug and a half-smile to accompany it. 

Draco falters. He’s been so busy trying to figure out how everyone would feel about the fact that he is dating Harry because he is _Harry Potter_ that he’d totally forgotten that there might be a ruckus just because they’re both blokes. “Crap.” 

Harry leans over and takes his hand, pressing it reassuringly. “So, you haven’t?” 

“I never thought it a good time. And I haven't been dating, especially not someone I’d like to go public with.” Harry smiles at that, a lowkey thing that makes Draco think he’s the worst sap ever. 

He glances down on their joined hands. When Harry self-consciously tries to let go, Draco takes his other hand and puts it on top of his to stop him. They do not acknowledge it further, and the longer they sit like that, the more normal it feels. Like there never has been a time where they haven't been touching when in each other’s presence. 

Food arrives, steaming and smelling better than anything Draco’s has eaten in months. They bicker over the fact that Draco’s food looks better than Harry’s and Draco finally agrees for Harry to have a taste. Draco immediately afterwards steals a mouthful from Harry’s plate just to make sure his wasn’t actually better. It results in a tiny cutlery sword fight that Draco very much wins when he silently spells Harry’s fork into a biscuit and he has to ask Amina for a new one. Draco blushes when Harry admires his silent spell work and curses him to Azkaban when he turns Draco’s knife into a cracker using his wand. Harry laughs. The sound wipes Draco’s pout right off. 

They talk quidditch and the Quibbler, they ask about each other’s routines and tries not to cringe too much when the other talks about their friends. They might’ve gotten past judgement over each other, but Draco still finds Granger and Weasley to be not the type to forgive and forget. Harry assures him that they’re getting there, and it’s not very believable and Draco is going to have to apologize at some point. They don't let the bad feelings associated with it ruin the situation, and the conversation is perfectly civil and mature. Draco’s proud of himself. 

The meal is over too quickly. It seems Harry thinks so too because when Amina comes to take their plates, he asks, “Dessert?”

“If you’re going to deprive me of the best part of the meal, we can end this right now.”

“We’ll take the dessert menu, Amina, thank you.”

Draco smirks. “I have quite the sweet tooth,” he admits. 

“Need something to weigh out all that salt,” Harry states casually. 

“I’ll be like honey later.” 

“What, sticky?” 

“Preferably.” 

Harry’s cheeks tinge of red. Draco considers it a win.

Draco devours the triple chocolate sugar bomb dessert he got himself and only shrugs when Harry stares at him. “I wasn’t kidding.” 

“I’ll make sure to remember that.” 

The statement makes Draco feel warm. Harry is going to remember something about him, and probably use that information in the future. Maybe he will bake Draco something sometime, he has said he likes to make pastries and baked good. 

“Where did your run off to?” 

Draco looks up. “The future,” he says and smiles. Harry looks confused but he smiles back. 

When they step out, it’s dark. Draco pulls his robes tight around himself and turns to Harry as he closes the restaurant door. 

“Do we have to end the night here?” Draco asks, because it feels like it’s ending. 

“No,” Harry says, shaking his head, “of course not. Do you… want to come to mine, for a cuppa?” He motions over his shoulder as if he lives right around the corner. 

Draco is not sure if the statement is a euphemism or not. Either way, he puts his arm out. “Take me there.” Oh, how he wants Harry to  _ take him.  _ Harry snorts and loops their arms together before apparating them away.

~~

Harry unlocks the door on the second try. He’s fumbling, finger’s unable to stay still because he’s really taking Draco home after a date. A date that went unimaginably good. He’d thought maybe he’d screw it up, maybe Draco would screw it up, maybe they would be awkward, have nothing to talk about, but no. It was one of the best conversations they’d ever had. A combination of mutual respect and understanding, fun and wit, seriousness and well-intended jabs. Harry couldn’t have asked for something better. 

Finally, he opens the door and leads Draco inside.

"I don’t think I told you, but I cleaned after one of our meetings, and I’ve managed to keep it decent since.” 

“That’s great, Harry.” Draco looks around and at least doesn’t seem to hate the place. His gaze stops at Harry and he smiles as he shrugs off his robes. “I’m proud of you.” 

Harry doesn’t respond, he doesn’t know how to, and just takes Draco’s robes and hangs them up. Just to have him here is enough to send Harry’s mind spinning, but to have him be proud of Harry’s recovery? Too much. Harry steps in front of him, heading towards the kitchen, and Draco extends a hand to grab his wrist. Harry turns to him again, raising his brows in quiet question. Draco takes a step towards him, shortening a distance that nowadays always seems much longer than necessary. 

“Are we really having a cuppa because I…”

“You don’t want tea?”

Draco’s lips quiver, he smiles and he lets his hand slip down Harry’s’ wrist to his fingers, weaving them together. “I do not want tea.” 

Harry nods, nervous and excited. Draco bites his lip and moves in even closer, angling down his head to fit their mouths together, not at all slow and tender as Harry would have expected. He kisses with heat, intent. Fuck. The clear want seeps into Harry’s veins and he grabs Draco, presses them together, and leads him slowly towards the bedroom—only stopping to press him up against the wall. Draco’s sounds makes Harry certain that was a wise move. 

They make it into the bedroom a gasping mess. Draco whispers curses and drags Harry down on the bed. Harry exclaims and they laugh. It’s… cosy. Weirdly enough. Draco’s smile feels good against his lips and Harry forgets about time and space. 

“Can you concentrate?” Draco asks in the midst of it.

“Only on you,” Harry responds, biting his neck.

“Good. Get your wand out.” 

“Is that a euphem―”

“No, Potter, your  _ actual  _ wand.” He rolls his eyes but Harry can see that he thinks it was at least a little bit funny. Harry sits up and fishes his wand out of his back pocket.

“And now?”

“I want you to use Legilimency on me.”

Harry feels his face drop. “Wait, what? Here?  _ Now _ ?” 

Draco waves a hand and then gets up on his knees. He walks over and pushes himself down in Harry’s lap. “Just do it; it’ll be good.”

“Good?”

“ _ Harry.”  _

“Okay, okay.” He chuckles, doesn’t know what Draco’s thinking but indulges him. He raises his wand, feeling a little strange about it, but he says, “ _ Legilimence.”  _

He breaches into Draco’s mind, quick and forceful, and Draco lets him. It’s a distorted mess of lust and warmth, and flashes of Draco sprawling on his hands and knees, moaning and whining. It's fantasy and dream mixed with reality, where Draco is both alone and in company. Because he’s well experienced in the mind’s work, Draco manages to give Harry exactly what he intends. A loop through his head, touching down on everything he wants Harry to know that he feels, or wants to feel, and it all leaves Harry gasping when Draco suddenly uses Occlumency to push him out. Harry feels like he’s going to topple over, but Draco grinds down on him, making him realise he’s already sitting down. 

Harry grabs Draco’s arms. “Jesus Christ—” 

“I want you so badly, Harry,” Draco says against his lip and moves against him. “Just want you to spread me wide, feel you inside me, fuck me so hard.” 

“You’re a real bottom bitch, aren’t you?” Harry laughs, eyes wide and face hot.

Draco sputters a surprised laugh and feigns offended. “Screw you, Potter.” He looks down and shifts, and his tone goes more serious when he continues. “You don’t have to. I know you also—”

Harry realises that most memories Draco has seen,  _ Harry  _ has been the one in that position, but that’s not an accurate representation of real life. “Not always.”

Draco glances up, relieved. “Yeah? Because I don’t...” 

Harry has had enough tiptoeing. “Stop talking.” He surges in and captures his lips, kissing him filthy and hard. Draco responds by groaning deliciously. 

With restrained hurry, Harry undresses him. Forces himself not to spell the clothes away and touches every exposed bit of skin he can find. He presses Draco down on the bed, into the covers, and flips him over between his legs. As if Harry wasn’t already halfway to overcome with lust, Draco pushes his arse up in the air, inviting Harry with a little shake. 

“Fingers or a spell?” Harry growl and wishes the answer to be the latter. 

“Spell,” Draco whines, his face pressed to the sheets. “Please.” 

Harry finds he has to stop cursing to perform the spell. It is quick, easy, and leaves Draco stretched open and dripping for him to slip into. These kinds of spells are unreliable, however, and Harry slips two lubed up fingers into him first. Draco withers on the bed, pushing up and taking Harry’s fingers all the way inside himself. 

“Give me more, please. Please, let me feel you, Harry, please…” He’s going to kill Harry, one way or another. Harry bends his fingers a little and marvels at the sight, the sounds, until Draco begs him again. Then, he removes his fingers. Draco whines needily. 

It feels slightly insane to push into him. After everything they’ve been through, how far they’ve come, and now they are  _ shagging.  _ Harry wants to laugh; what would his teenage self have said if he told him this was happening in the future? 

“Focus,” Draco commands him and Harry laughs.

“Excuse me, princess.” 

“Don’t you—” But Harry doesn’t get to hear what he shouldn’t. He thrusts into Draco harshly and Draco seems to forget what he was going to say, the words instead coming out as a long moan. That is far more interesting anyway, so Harry doesn’t ask him to elaborate on his earlier point. Instead, he makes sure Draco repeats himself, again and again and again. 

Draco jerks himself off when Harry has fucked him slow and hard for so long Draco’s whole body is shaking with the need to come. Harry decides quickly that Draco while coming is the best way he has ever experience Draco Malfoy. He wishes he could see his face when it happens, but then he’s coming too and that will have to wait. 

...For about fifteen minutes, while Harry kisses Draco so much he can’t even catch his breath. They’re on their sides next to each other and Harry touches him, slow and light not to make him too over sensitive, and Draco curses him out for being so bloody horny. Like he himself isn’t lying there with his dick hard again. Draco pulls away from his lips and arches off the bed as Harry jerks him through a second orgasm. The sight is better than Harry could’ve ever imagined. 

Draco pats his hand away afterward. “You’re not doing it a third time.” 

“Maybe later.” 

With one eye open and his face pressed into the pillow, Draco agrees. Maybe later. 

They lie in bed for a long time afterwards. Draco doses every now and then and Harry keeps finding himself tucking stray hairs behind Draco’s ear. Somehow, a napping Draco is Harry’s favourite. 

“You’re staring.” 

“You’re very pretty.” 

“I know.” 

Harry snorts. “Come closer, I want to cuddle.” 

Draco rolls his eyes, but does scoot forward. Harry snakes his arm around his neck and pulls him in. Draco curls his naked body against him, warm and soft. “Are you one of those who sleep under the same covers because I’ll tell you right now: I’ll steal it and won’t give it back until morning.” 

“I’ll steal it back, you’ll see.” 

Draco makes a sound as if he isn’t so sure about that. They’ll be in a tug and war soon enough, Harry figures, but it will be worth it. Two covers means less contact. 

Draco snorts, then. 

“What?” 

“It’s funny,” he says. “I’ve always viewed Voldemort as  _ giving _ me things I didn’t want. Nightmares, anxiety, impossible task and choices,  _ this.”  _ He shows his Mark and Harry clasps a hand around it, acknowledging it’s existence but hiding it from view. He doesn’t understand where this is going, but lets him continue. “It’s funny because it’s quite the opposite for you. We started this whole thing because Voldemort stole your Paradise, and everything else you’ve told me is about losing something. But now  _ you _ have stolen my bloody  _ heart _ in the process.” Harry laughs, startled. With a serious upturn of his nose, Draco declares, “I’m going to have to ask you to give it back.” 

Harry shakes his head vigorously and holds onto him harder. “No way, Malfoy. It’s  _ mine  _ now.” And Harry intends to keep it, treasure it, build on it, and make sure that it’s happy. Screw Voldemort. Harry feels happy. Settled. Like he could lie in bed with Draco all day and never feel like he must move. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, but as Draco snuggles in even closer, Harry feels… at home. For the first time in many years, Harry has roots, he’s tying himself down, he’s better. He’s good. He’s  _ happy _ , he thinks again because it’s worth circling back to. Far from cured, and he really should get himself another Healer now, and maybe a regular therapist, but he never thought when he stepped into Draco's office the first time that this would be the outcome. He’d hoped for Draco to miss violence, everything he was given, and instead he has given Harry love back. It is crazy and wonderful. “Yeah,” he says and looks down at Draco, dragging his fingers over his Mark in a manner that makes Draco’s entire body shudder against him. “It’s all mine.”

“Yeah,” Draco says and smiles. He reaches up to kiss him softly and sounds entirely happy about when he continues, “Yeah, I guess it is.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Please consider leaving a comment, it brightens my day and I've worked hard on this piece


End file.
